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Biography is either masked ball or epitaph. As you find me, so we are.

Tuesday, 16 October 2012


Oh how I love an inky nib whose grip
Sits snugly at a poet’s fingertip;
A goblet spilling liquid.  Ferment stains
Persistently the rug of life’s refrains.
But who to fête with how the wine will age?
The vintner’s skill at peppering a page?
The testing tongue of the sommelier who
Sensibly recommends to table two
His favoured glass?  The diners, nervous, set
Their drunk delight by his lettered palate,
So, cooing over bottles they succumb
To the outpourings of his father’s chum.
Rare is the life that judges by its own
Receptors.  Rarer still the voice alone
Yet knowing of its fellows.  Thus begins
A private conversation between twins -
And from such special, secret heart to heart,
The sweet intoxication of true art.

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