And so I lie upon this bedroom’s carpet

Littered with fluff, dust, O, snapchat from Harpiic

Received at sev’n p.m, what does it say

I wonder? Ever ‘tis I do proclaim

Shall not I be inclined to soon reply.

This end of week have I so named empty

For want of songs of ice and fire aplenty

Clasped in my hand, my eyes will drink, I’ll sing

My mind a vessel for their tuneful ring

Reverberating round. My gaze is bent

To dancing, sodden fields and merriment

Enjoyed by others, none less so than she,

Who welcomes one who shares such song I bleat,

Into mine own home for with me to meet.

He’ll sing and dance as they do, like a slave

A puppet to desire. My look, grave

Enthralled to this script and form and verse

With scarce room as in a fat man’s hearse.

But who is left to blame but I alone?

I made my choice and you made yours I know

‘tis I who writes and lies on fluffy debris

Whilst you twirl, O not so steadily

And while I scribble, the guises put on

And shed, achieve a certain end, common

Ground, which is to blunt the edge and make norm

Which you do with liquid, and I with form

And so we veil the vulgar in the vague

And from ourselves and others truths do save

About alasdairflett

German & English Literature graduate. From Orkney. Interested in alternative and indie music, language, writing and politics.
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