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He was seven and I was six, my Brendon Gallacher.He was Irish and I was Scottish, my Brendon Gallacher.His father was in prison; he was a cat burglar.
His name is called and there's a pause
just long enough to halt a war
tame timber wolves and trim their claws
hide diamonds in a secret drawer
Here now skyline assembles fire.The sun collects up to leave.Its bright following paled,suddenly all goes. Dusk rushesin, like door closed on windowless room.
All you see is outside me: my painted smile,the rosy-posy shell, the fluttery eyes.A butter-won’t-melt-in-my-mouth-type me
I am a crocodile who lost my smile in the turbulent waters of the Nile.When I was very small, trapped inside my crocodile egg,
When I was bornI was a familiar,a black cat, Satan’s favourite form.