Sunday, 2 April 2017


A jet of afflatus
in my epicurean contemplation of life
as I compose poetry in the shower,
trying to get the perfect balance
of hot and cold,
my fingers webbing from staying in
one spot for too long.

My memory of the words
is swept away in lachryform beads
by the coarse towel's kiss;
grating against horripilated and
humbled flesh,
lost forever with those ephemeral easing
moments of enlightenment.

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