Art the pool the puddling

Art the pool the puddling the grammar of our lives. Oil of tumble, shimmer of petrol grazed across the night sky. Closing in. Air thins and thought drains with the crashing brick rain. Screams down the yawing grids. Art is the pool the puddling. Grammar of our lives the wet swell in lung beds, slosh of mother’s blood. It is raining and grey and weeds spill their colours from the back-garden coal bunker. What’s the pen full with? Heart sucking on the outside wet and psalms and blossom. The first sadness.

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