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| Gerald Brom |
There are no more straws to clutch at
This coffin has turned to mud
My shoes are full of sharp fish bones
My hair a barbed-wire flood
The sides collapse
my scrabbling claws
I bite my tongue
it tastes of nothing
my teeth grind yellow
against hope’s black flies
I am the corpse of the idea
of a man of a man
I am a spectre
of self-told lies
This coffin has turned to mud
My shoes are full of sharp fish bones
My hair a barbed-wire flood
The sides collapse
my scrabbling claws
I bite my tongue
it tastes of nothing
my teeth grind yellow
against hope’s black flies
I am the corpse of the idea
of a man of a man
I am a spectre
of self-told lies
2 comments:
I like how this hangs together...
my favourite line: I am the corpse of the idea....of a man of a man
(of course, it could be that after a weekend of teaching I am linking corpses and ideas in a weirdly natural way.... )
I'm surprised it hangs together at all given that it was written from the pit.
I do hope that wasn't a weekend of teaching corpses :)
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