Here are some poems, composed by a puppet,

some are my own and some of them not.

You can like one, or quite like them all,

or simply not like them a hell of a lot.


x



Friday 3 February 2012

Spilling Out by Jacob Sam-La Rose

What's the half-life of a bright idea?
How deep must it be buried
to prevent it radiating,

like trying to stop a bulb's
insistent light from spilling out
between the fingers or leavening
the enforced blindness
of closed eyelids?

Imagine rolling that hot bulb
on your tongue,
all it's brilliant shining.

Now, try closing your mouth.

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