Saturday, 20 November 2010


Inoculate the world against us,
we have grown too strong,
this parasite has grown wings and flown,
and though in certain lights its beautiful
in darkness it is cold and it is damp,
lying congealed and lifeless at the bottom of a lamp.

Waiting for some warmth,
some lifeblood to suck,
cuts off its own hands for an ounce of good luck.

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