Saturday, 9 July 2011


The older/ i become/ the more/ i believe/ in dragons 

Swaddled in a blanket
of green smoke
I believed
yet did not fear them
their scuds of flame
benign as moonlight
on my amianthine skin.
When the time came
I ditched them easily
until not long ago
when I found one
in the garage
its breath reeking
of hot rubber.
I tried to slip away
but it spotted me
its sickled eyes
oiled by amber
Since that day
we have drunk
Oolong together
deconstructed Derrida
even spun around
the church steeple
a time or two
and though it has kept
its flambeau capped
in such a highly
flammable area
when the raven
taps on my window
I will be cinders:
gleanings and bone -
a grim ending
to any fairytale.