Exile

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Followers awaiting return, I was glanced
over in the first take.
Tapered into tomorrow,
a tattoo beat fading.

Forever a repercussion, I am slashed
with forgiveness.
Boundless waves,
of the silent depths.

Impossible, I am washed
over in the broader strokes.
A faded hologram,
made of mirrors.

Under the eyelids, I am smoke-screen sureness
burning.
Bars of the dead,
baby world.

Incandescent, I am twisted
in re-presentation.
Borrowed matches,
funereal scream warp.

Sickness, I am short-term-sighted
and everything
between
identity.

Triangles always, I am merging
blending with the pallet crowd.
Yieldy,
forgoes it.

Teddy build, I am break-moulded
perishable happening.
Just in time,
to escape.

Of sorrow and joy, I am a jewel thief in a carrier bag
pushing up the nadirs
on the stars
and their keeper.

Snap welded lungs, I am vicarious
sub-textual entry.
I breathe in the gravels,
this is the fear.

Paramount bullshit levels, I am canned microcosms
tunnel dusk.
Spectacle,
of westerly promise.

Lack lustre forgiveness, I am the map on the window
so light
negotiates
in the dark.

Bruised impermanence, I am blood nosed
split liquor fever.
A fight to the death,
always.

Greg Fiddament
Photo nick Victor


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