Tuesday, 17 April 2012

16: Baudelaire

We asked the drunken moose
atop the mountain to share his
taoist secrets, to bung the
needing we kept uncorked.

Our calcified chests primed
to unyoke, our hearts
bubbling like primordial
fondue waiting for the wise
bread whose dip would see

us snigger. We asked he
prise it off like candlewax
dripped on oak flooring,
we asked for answers; we
spoke of Mobius loops
untied and unravalled.

The drunken moose closed
his eyes and hiccuped. The
hiccup bounced down
the mountain and I stopped

asking and listened, and
waited for the splash.

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