Monday, 15 March 2010


The art is to provoke
shapes whose preliminary contours
delude reports consequent
lengthy illness. There exist
in the literature
blown out lamps torn across
lands whose mouths scream
lullaby. Is some gentle days
clouds spun out & recurrence
occurring. The next art is to take
whatever is to dream, say
a dove’s jaw & locked
key. Catapulting itself at
the window all cobwebbed
& deadly to get in.

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