My National Poetry Month challenge to myself has become a collaboration between synaesthetic artist Sammy-John, myself, Anjum Wasim Dar and Jay Gandhi: Day Eighteen: Our Imposter




scorpion on your back
rises from hibernation when
I gently massage it.
It throbs when my fingers
kiss you. it gets worked
up when my hands go in
unexplored bits of your body.
slowly it uncoils, opens up
to have a heated banter.
initially there is friction,
then fluidity And when
the rush reaches the peak
Scorpion spits venom.

By Jay Gandhi

Our Imposter

writes these words.
It can’t be me.
making black marks in white space,
footprints in the snow, ash on a white shroud.

contrails in translucent skies,
As if it knows how to manipulate
negative space, hint at, disguise
other intentions, stain the page with colours.

I am not good enough to vandalise
this pristine, reshaping of a tree.

2019 Paul Brookes

She felt an odd discomfort
adjusted the glasses from
time to time
Black coat red tie, yellow
carnation, a princely smile
apprentice of Promethean

he seemed , ‘You will die’
her first secret task, how to
find the spy? Should she talk

to the one in blue? No’
the mind struck the eye
think’ think the other way
when all appear  the same
the one you seek Dolus’
companion of Pseudologi
is always standing right
right there just behind you
Turn ! Turn !
2019 © CER  Anjum Wasim Dar

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