sketches
#1
A few sketches of spring made whilst walking the kids to school...


There is no moor,
There is no sun,
no end of street:
Only 40 denier fog.

Carry. My legs hurt.
Look, a leaf.
That's a stick.
On the end of the branch.

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Yellow crocus
purple crocus
Lambert and Butler
white crocus.

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The crocus
colours
the shadow of it's bulb.

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And a piece of silliness.....

The Habanparanoiaera
Coalescing, inside my brain
this tune, it will not let me shake,
the tin foil hat, upon my head,
no difference does it seem to make

It's CIA, it's mind control
The MI5 and the KGB;
Am I born, to shoot it out
with the cops on the live TV?

Oh fudge,
Oh fudge,
Oh fudge,
Oh fudge.

The tin foil hat draws many stares
as I shop for a can of beans.
Pirate Perv is shouted out
as well as other things, more, obscene.

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#2
I love that you describe the first few fragments as "sketches"; sketching as a literary term is underusedSmile I like the staccato style of those fragments; they create an idiosyncratic rhythm which is pleasing to read, as each little sentence and clause builds towards a complete image. The "silly" poem is great, though you really overkill "the" in S2 (L4, for instance, doesn't need either of its "the"s). Thank you for the read!
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe
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