How soft bellied and bookish I’ve become,
these years since I last left the council yard.
My tattoo turning green, my scrawny arms,

my mind fetid with all those printed words,
the grey pulp of knowledge. Don’t get me wrong,
I ploughed through books back then, my prole glare bored

into volumes while polluting my lungs
with tea break roll ups. I learned out of spite
for all those that thought poetry belonged

to the academy, packed up, air tight,
insulated from the social real.
I liked to punch above my mental weight,

to treat knowledge as something I could steal.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Jul 06, 2012 @ 00:01:03

    Stolen pleasures are always sweeter. So are things you have to work for.


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