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Which can be brushed out long and fineto lie across a pillowor bunched and scrunched into an angryknot of rain before it is undone, when long hanks of it hang
Next door live three old ladies. They’re sisters, well into their eighties, but to us kids, they seem beyond time.
I’ve got the Teach-them-in-the-morning-Playground-duty-Teach-them-in-the-afternoon blues.My head’s like a drum;My feet, cold and sore.I’m feeling so glum;
When I was bornI was a familiar,a black cat, Satan’s favourite form.
Next life – I was in a roomyou couldn’t swing a cat in.Outside it was raining cats and dogs.
The light through the blind is a poem,
the way it illuminates air.
And the shadows that fall
on the floor and the wall
are signs that a poem is there.
The sea lays big glass hands on the sand,spreading its fingers out as if newto the shore. It can’t quite believe in it.It wants to hold on before the glass breaks.
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
The phone ringsBut never long enoughFor the Slow Man.
By the timeThe set’s switched onHis favourite programme’s over.
The space is a friend.I tell it what hurts.
I tell it why I'm not good.The space is a friend.I tell it the bother I'm in.It won't let me tell lies.
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.