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  • Some wake to a morning made of stripes

    And spend a lifetime in concave reflections;

    Fantasising of labyrinthine potential

    Carved by the woven hands of M C Escher

    Whilst picnicking on paradoxical

    Vertices; swimming in the viscous

    ashtray gloop of opaque solidity

    And residing in a world of pure beige

    Pondering some universal colour.

    Some revel in a state of voluntary

    Constipation and spend the morning

    airing out lethargic lungs. Constructed

    by a swash of blues and pinks believing

    in the autocracy of syntax

    And painting it on foam walls,

    forgetting the concept of conformity

    And the desolate screams of prehistory

    Embedded in organic limestone blocks.

    Some find vanilla to be exquisite;

    A form of kindness to embrace full-tongued,

    Proclaiming their love only once.

    They scatter themselves alongside the remnants

    Of the Elgin Marbles. Locked in a cycle

    of togetherness in un-togetherness;

    Seeking company in the eye of an eye

    of an eye of a drop from a dead sea

    Where no two raindrops are ever the same.

    Some see chaos as gospel in blood;

    Worshiping the smoky vaporous

    Fluid, finding beauty in refraction

    And brushing the shimmering convection

    Aside they finger their swollen coffee grounds

    And know that drought is just rain un-fallen.

    They push the moon away with a thumb;

    An attempt to measure out Eternity

    on a scale balanced by unwritten books.


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