tacky
-- cold flesh sticking.
trickery turning, turned
trickery turned stale
leading me on...
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cold eyes unseeing.
lost love bleeding.
but no-one to weep.
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A small hand, curled in a gesture - ‘come here’
But I can’t go, although I’m shown the way.
broken bones, paving stones and round green glass
chimneys emitting foul vapours
fat rats
footprints in the dirt - ‘follow me’
I’m trying!
But the rats are in the way.
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fiber, dust and rust -
shaky foundation for life and death
cotton, paper, iron -
shakier still.
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feline chaos
Curving ivory.
Clickclickclickittaclickitta-thump!
I meant to do that.
Crossed gold.
Staring and thinking and thinking and thinking.
Suddenly waking up.
Of course I was busy!
Wailing libretto.
shaking glass and small china things
I’m speaking clearly.
It is you who is spouting nonsense.
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Big things are made of little things,
and things still smaller than that.
My life is made of little things,
and my bigness is belittled by a larger structure.
I depend upon particles.
I doubt they depend upon me.
Should the paramecium worship me?
Should I sing praises to the machine that I turn within?
When small parts break down, bigger things fail.
I refuse to take my place for granted.
Nor should the paramecium.
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It looks nothing like chocolate syrup! Nor rust! Nor ink!
Not sweet, certainly metallic, and oft used for messages, but....
it is still none of those things. Not on a good day.
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(in progress)
The blind woman’s sight falters - and there is no-one willing to take my place.