Wednesday, 18 March 2015


He that loves pleasure must for pleasure fall.
Cronos sits, and licks his lips   
   with lustful eyelessness.
His light bulbs blaze and seethe in greed 
   beneath the beating sun,
and his grease-bedraggled hair hangs down
   in tangles round his cheeks.
He ogles at his flinty feast 
   as televisions flash;
above, a jet plane scalds the skies
   with roaring sicknesses.
Cleft bones crunch between his teeth;
   his thirst can not be quenched,
his hunger, never satisfied.
   – Not ever, ever 

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