Friday, 8 June 2012

Sweeping up spiders

clap clap clap.
well done well done,

rinse the dirt off that comes from outside,
there is nothing but laminate inside,
there is nothing that you can't hide,
you're shining up your ground flat teeth,
you're singing on a hot knife,
a high squealing slide along,
screening out the suicide,
glazing over the tide,
waves coagulated,
motion still but never sated,
a white wash for the chalk walls,
no more corrections,
 inscrutable meat.
I can't tell what your head is doing,
I can't tell from your happy face, your pretty hands, your pigeon feet.

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