This outsider unsettled
Butterfly pinned upon a mount of rage
Where logic flies
From chickens hypnotised

There is no reason
For this glass-cased collection of lies
Where children swing
From catenaries of future crimes

The past is lost
But not yet severed from the mind’s nerve-ends
And daydream heights
Offer not the sustenance they once did

A bouquet fenced
Between cemetery and railway line
Bloodstains washed
From the twisted frame of a wrecked car

There are no reasons
Behind these fortress walls all arrow-pierced
Mere scar tissue
Over ever-tender wounds and scalpel love-bites

March 2009

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