Clincher
Baby bird rasps from the oak tree by the painted shed
A sky is folded up to near ink blue
Nettled palms keep skew whiff time
By the pines three tones ascending one two three
Whatever you tell yourself is untrue
Dead mirror
See thru ball rests
on the solid water
Flesh mass jogging
Ardour armour over
One lump hammer
Hanging from a tree
From Route Traces
Hail, Holy Queen!
The C in CUNT
Looks as if
Writ in sleep.
In Monday crawl
Air is thick and sour.
Maybe a hand slipt.
© 2020 Duncan Jones
