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Thursday, 31 December 2009


If they told me to

I wouldn’t

I’d tug and stretch

That slicker of flesh

And taste the words

Spoken from a gifted tongue

A souvenir

From men I’ve never met

They might tell me what I’m made from

And I would search with fingers

For the sculpted chalk

Out of sight

Behind the seam of skin

And find it different

To the ones in museums and films

That had stared, eyeless, through dusty glass

They might write my name in red pen

An inheritance from Adam

But I know about the unfeeling, pink tissue

And the tubes and filaments

Which snap and crackle

And pop

And synapses that buzz

Wet with juices,

Which boil with thought and movement

These are mine

mine and no one else’s

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