Tuesday, 8 January 2013


I am the bunion of river thistle, downstream of acorns and fire, scorched by the sun desiring my carbon. I am lost here though buoyant, scattered seed, stamen risen, parched, coloured, bruised and scribing the unutterable, tied by linguistics to familiar torments and acceptable codes, seeking recognition for bravery, finding acceptance in self deprecation and jest. I am the river thistle, a bunion floating upturned, a hedgehog accepting its fate beneath the moon as the darkness falls and the enormity of beasts look down upon me passing from the banks, their taxonomies mapped in vapour. I am the river thistle, downstream to the sea.

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