By Richard Mather
Save us! A sex-fiend went to the wheel of the train. Is this the way out? Yes, but flies crawl downwards. I have a picture of Saturn.
The situation has changed:
it is the wrong kind of number.
The babies are crying. Well, then, it must be a holiday. It is green. If you like you can say the same.
“Diabetes is on the increase.” It is the Americas: they are pushing me. into something almost final like the end of summer.
I am not Lord Tennyson but this is as close as I can get.
Neither boy nor girl but more than motivated.
In my hand is a streetmap of X.
Yesterday is a revolution:
how and why are details.
Water smells roses. A fallen petal on the wet flagstones. White girls push white babies: the loss and gnashing of teats. “What counts is a failed life.”
That's it, plus the death of voices.
(The sound of a typewriter. A man smoking.)
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