‘Rising Slowly’ by Guest Poet Polly Robinson

He takes his brain out every night

And puts it in a bucket,

Each yellow ochre coloured cell

Emits a foul and fetid smell and starts to pound

Then starts to swell,

Rising slowly

They’re locked by night and locked by day

Each thought in every cell,

But each one can be clearly seen

With viscous matter in between, visible threading

Patterned, mean,

Rising slowly


He finds the lock and turns the key

His tendencies concealed,

His stares are made of wooden looks.

Logic soaking; bubbles rising; instinct reigns sublime,

His intellect,

Rising slowly

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