I salute my demise,

And when I’m sad I reveal,

To that inner sanctum;

My soul, If such I possess.

All sadness, indulgent, intro and inspection,

The numerous examinations of my many causes.

And how I wallow, my oddity fitting my stony shape,

Like mud always does.

 

I keep in levels both my self determination

And my disease.

Ready and useful for the next time,

The next time of dread.

 

I should not bequeath by seed

To others,

Save that they might

Reveal in my helix

A tendency to be too. . .

 

My fortress is my stream,

As conscious as I am.

 

More often than not,

I am off dreaming,

As usual, squandering,

And leaving early for tea.

I half languish in the agony

Of sated appetites.

 

Half fatal, half again wounded,

The quartets pay the dead ringers

With the folly of the Crown.

Whilst confiding in poetry

I re-tell of the damage I have slid on.

 

Right from my onset through to those yesteryear’s.

Onward to this trafficking hour,

And my final algebraic breaths.

I am calculus in fearsome knowledge.

Being serial through to my selfish centre

I am made equal, being appalling,

And saluting my demise with the confetti of monstrous lies.

 

Christopher Thompson

#equal #poet #confetti #crown #monstrous

Mar 17th, 2014

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