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Tell me, Mama,Where does the sun come fromin the morning?
Where does it go towhen it reaches the edge of the field?
'On buses and trains you wouldn't believeThe crazy things that passengers leave:
A pair of crutches, I kid you not,Hot-waterbottle, full but no longer hot
I am the evil Slithermonchowchuck,I am afraid of no one (well almost no one).I munch on the marbles of lost lunatics,I nibble on the toes of Tyrannosaurus
A stranger called this morningDressed all in black and greyPut every sound into a bagAnd carried them away
This is the city:buildings, buses, trains and carsconcrete, metal, bricks and glasshouses, lights and cinemasshops and offices and barsthis is where the people are.
The playground is built on top of a graveyard.
Press your ear to the tarmac and you'll hear the undead
scratching on their coffin lids.
Today I read a bus stopand then I read a van,a poster and three carrier bags,some shop signs and a manwho had a crazy T-shirt on.
Furrows unfurl,Carved by the plough – Curl, fold, fall back:The skin peels away.
A poem is not an Antbut it can be quite short.A poem is not a Bananabut there may be something under its skin.A poem is not a Coat
In the beginning was the wordand the word is ours:
the names of places,the names of flowers,the name of names,words are ours.