There is to be no writing, nor catharsis,
When an elephantine memory for detail
Is imprinted into the meta-tarsus
Where you put your future up for sale.
As a real estate broker the devil was dressed,
For the part he kept his everyday clothes;
The boards went up, buyers impressed,
There was some mention in industry prose
Of the hall which housed your missing soul.
Death by broken heart has a ring of poetry,
Outweighs misadventure or suicide’s hole,
Or takotsubo cardiomyopathy.
I placed a thorn behind my eye,
Beetroot blessed for routing the devil,
But the thorn took seed in a leftover stye,
And there he shaped his revel.
Passed a parcel of illusion
Through life’s spiralling petal,
Semi-conducted an earthly confusion
Using pieces of eight-pound metal.
If all I see is a construct,
Then death is the engineer’s basket;
The fable-stuffed hepatic duct,
I am removing this house from the market.
Seven Hundred Jisei 