4. it’s as good as a play, each convict and martyr a willing prisoner of their own mind’s eye. Every letter checked, white mounds full, walking tall past shaded squares, yet, we always almost sometimes fall between the fractures of our own bold lines.
6. I’ve done it again. What’s my point? I need a true north, a noir star to guide me somewhere stable.
9. I wish you could see the view from here. Right now, through my lens. You’re my ambigram; as perfect from here as you’d be from absolutely nowhere. You are, from any interpretation, or direction, or distance, contagiously yourself.
11. Did you pick out the important part? Let distance be a test of how strong a message is. It carries, it glides, and it wasn’t muffled by my foreign words. I tread carefully over the pristine glass floors of your clues. I always smear it with my heels.
15. I’m slowly learning that in the fingertips of every romantic anarchist, we all type P.C keys. I am still evolving. Let me learn to scrape my knuckles lightly on the Earth, just this once. I find it rather soothing.
17. You feel familiar, yet I can’t taste the source. You’re a lateral drinking game. Like sniffing an empty pint glass, it fails to quench me of you. Just as foster smoke is foreplay to a lung that craves a deep, hard fill of the real stuff.
18. Sometimes, you bash your head against the concrete of my clumsy words, spinning your frontal lobe dizzy. They dart in all directions. That’s why I pad each line. My skin remains, but I get to watch my innards kamikaze. Protection; because you’re more important than I am. There’s your truth.
1. 80’s novel. Batman feeds you a stray stanza.
2. Attention! Please ignore me, indefinitely.
3. Worthy for a while, then climaxes in the wrong dimension.
5. Diet grrrl; enjoying a gluten free menopause.
7. By polar icing sun. Laugh, cry and laugh.
8. Think yourself a younger you. Count how many wishes survived. How is that not your main concern?
10. Call in sick and worship.
12. No battle scars? No sex.
13. I got 84% on my individuality, test me on any subjective.
14. Pleaser? Change. Go on, do it for me.
16. Fate can be gained. Fat can take you only so far. Fact is a feminist issue.
Dean Rhetoric is a former foundry worker currently failing in London. He has poetry in Bunbury, Picaroon and various trash cans. He is a rat-a-tat asthmatic who occasionally ventures outside. Please read him with an appropriate amount of apathy.