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Extricate the extrovert,

liberate the liar,

hyperventilating hypocrite,

inspired first-time-buyer,

the science of mythology,

contradicts the smitten,

the chance to dance

with all, as yet unwritten.

Epitaph, Entreated


It’s just my bones that lie here,

I want it written on my grave,

as my soul was sold so long ago,

so keep your prayers, and save

your tears; for the years I gave

you are worth more than the loss.

Wherever I am, I love you,

don’t be cross. I ask one last thing

of you, my one wish, my final boon,

live your life, be free and please;

don’t come and see me soon.

The Mendicant’s Funeral (from ‘Orphaned Echoes, the Book of Dead Gods’)

We make-believe in monuments,

training our brains to torment ourselves

with potential, demanding

impossible legacies

be left in the wake

of the destiny that could never manifest.

We murder metaphysics,

psychoanalysing philosophers

in an attempt

to eradicate the contemporary,

seeking stranger bedfellows

than the psychopaths

who helped us hide the bodies

(of work).

Do we burn the books?

Or bury our ideals?