Saturday, 10 March 2012


           We inches along
                                                thin       and rinsed
        the grist is a word         stuck in the gullet
                    with the caught breath
                                               the bad smile
         plagued out
                crawling behind lines
         of the letter we unwrote

                      We’re to be said!
                            Here!          This is us!
             dark       brittle and tunnel dark
                                            Now here!         

                 stops      unfitted        thumbed over

We serves the blistered boy
     with the tongue shut in
                                          ||       the body is
                                              our salty bruiser
                        We word for him
                                and says your thinks
                         are turds                 spat crusts.

You there!             the chronic and unseemly ghost

              This be our patch: now shift!

Our boy sweats jewels    
                      He   bleeding   WINS

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