Monthly Archives: November 2013

numbers

second time the title .
we quote some numbers, unmentionable
for some will snigger. we need a double
throw to get out of jail, move forward,
one dice. the dayword was impossible.

on reflection, it is all satisfactory, we
shall buy the board, aquire another throw.

it will be waiting in the games room.

the hydro hotel.

sbm.

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memory

memory is thought to be gone,
remnants remain, hiding.
working faster with out all

those words,
those images .

bare bones of the fact replaced,
restarted, corrupted items place gently
in the box, tied.
turn with dust.

crosses.

sbm.

xist

10.11. twelve

it has been different
this time. were preparing
for verything, surprised
when words fell away
into ether.

gaseous samples of neutralisation,
realise the decision is made. lasting.

deleting nothing , results the same.

nothing.

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gold

is this inspired by brymbo man,
or the medieval manuscript?

i have seen other work, more
valuable, skill full, commercial.

yet it is the smaller things,
that keep us busy here,
a forgotten word, shattered glass
and insects.

gold kicks in to try to claim
importance.

yet, it is just a little thing.

this time.

it is for sale,

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priorities

to sweeten life. the kiss,
use sugar.

we wrote the words,
print in blood, yet we only had
sepia.

a ruler to tear, fold
carefully, mix with shards
that worked from window
panes.

cotton lengths, blend with oil.
soothing balm.

we have a new bottle here.

the kiss
is up for sale.

sbm.

new year

brymbo man

declared love, declared shame
for brymbo man living in suburbia.

declared love for mindless blobs
of gold, medieval collections. here.

ah, we discussed the tonsure,
denoting all humility,moved

quickly to primark, all things
underworn. yet there was no

brawn, yesterday. half day

closing.

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black beetle

have you read of them before.

the beetles here turn over,
legs waving, we turn them back,
then,
it is all repeated.

empathy kicks in
for all small folk
who suffer, who cry
in dark corners.

we know he will die,
yet cannot save him.

all is in disorder.

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cauliflower

the end bits grey, steeped in butter,
seems the cat likes that, greedy

thing, eats all i give and more besides.

we are replacing lost notes and buttons,
cutting, stitching carefully as spoken about
yesterday.

he says it is a strange shape and form
with emphasis, he may be right. the cat

continues to eat.

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weaving

i suggested mending when you asked about weaving.
yet what goes round comes round. i find myself weaving,
at the mill.

how apt.

was i weaving on pegs, the stuff of dreams,
addictive wool gathering storms and whether,
or not, we should make and mend. the old way?

Johann Botha.

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