Sitting on the tube
thinking why?
Why would I paint?
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My nails continue to grow.
I buy more toothpaste.
I make no sculpture.
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I was swinging away merrily on my trapeze, I could do all sorts of tricks hanging from my strong tree with a sturdy branch for me.
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The writing seems to be in a poem form but I am not trying to be a poet here. It's just as it comes, in part shaped by the space at the edge of the paper.
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Pick pick, the farage kite
tears soft underbelly
from an upturned
sheep too gorged
to stand.
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I follow you
I follow you into life.
Of which given,
you gave.
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Oh england lost
my treasured friend,
please tell me.
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I come from fields of clover
from the north.
From the west of an island
of which we share salt water.
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A frozen trough.
Clinging to cold flat depth
brown leaves resist but yield
to dry cold wind.
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