Imagine your hand is
one hundred days older
Than the hand you use now.
Look at your hand.

What will that hand hold,
in one hundred days from now?
What will that hand have push away
that changes the next one hundred days?

Your hand is younger than it is now
than it will be in one hundred days.
In one hundred days, this hand will
mould and shape and change each way.

This hand is the age you are now,
and this hand is not eternal.
This hand helps you to write and pick up
what you need; reflexes from danger, sometimes.

One hand in one hundred days may be
marked, with a burn or scar or a tattoo.
The other hand may be softer, because
you wore gloves or moisturised by choice.

Or maybe this hand in one hundred days
Will be blistered, from harm you fought with wonder.
Maybe this hand is a blessing forgotten
And you reach for another coffee.

So why are you so focused
on what happened one hundred days ago?
The hand moves, clenches, rests, changes,
like time too.

tides of perennial apparitions shape my enchanted wisdom,
moisturised thinking,
the heart of time bleeding with nectar of shy prophecies. The rare design of my being leads me to the godly truth of judgement.

Roll up, there's another piece on sale
of rotted trendyness, in absence it prevails
sitting atop the throne of a plucky survivor
my mind useless, my body designer

I'm not a hero, I'm not a ***** - probably both
changing skin like fashion, both corrupt and gross -
oh do you like my hair, my bulging ****** excess?
I moisturised my face today with feaces and ground insects

eyes diamonds swamped in a pool of lies
followed by a scent of longing whilst inside swarms flies
thinking we know beauty, we ****** for fear others will take
but on the outside its easy to fabricate, to fake

I smell of roses today, oh yes I'm soo exquisite
killing in the name of love, juvenile and disgustingly delinquent
destroying myself to create a new persona I can own
but how can you have something that's already gone

one thousand suits I have with no happiness to show
I'll sell you a million, it's in desperation greed grows,
smiling sweetly as I descend into the land of sensual dreams
whilst inside my morality fits and screams

there's another piece on sale
no longer fashionable but frail
dragged from the tears of an unlucky survivor,
my mind's useless, my body bedazzling

*oh I'm designer!