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Date Posted: 18:49:27 04/04/00 Tue
Author: Paul A.S. Rushton
Author Host/IP: dialup.212-140-72-67.tesco.net / 212.140.72.67
Subject: Daily Star (Part IV)


Looking back through pearls of thought,
And squares of coloured glass I bought,
I led you down a road I know,
With hours to kill and stones to throw,
Where memory is tilted sight,
And circumstance, refracted light,
Your hands of patience never felt,
Insomnia the card you dealt,
So I might beg a plate from you,
To take me down a peg or two,
It's thistle comfort built your boat,
But touching wood won't help you float,
No wizened skipper sailed a brick,
A fluttered face ne'er launched a ship,
But every side to you I met,
Revealed a face I can't forget,
To flap in that same leafy nightmare,
Bellowed shocks of purpled air,
The papers which you read today,
The malachite in all you say,
With hours to kill and stones to throw,
You're feigning emeralds for show,
You wasted years proposing toasts,
Till all your hopes and dreams were ghosts,
Or avenues of coloured swans,
And bygones turned to lately gones,
Where truth is muscle to your sighs,
And all your fingers baked in pies,
So make a wish on filter tips,
And balance lost to Freudian slips,
And mustered spirits to import,
Or strength to hop a train of thought,
Where petrol pigments paint the deep,
You'll find your place to fall asleep,
Grazed from ever falling down,
You drag your feet to walk around,
Where paper locusts lives infest,
And wet in streams of conciousness;
And panicked sounds of seeming safe,
You hit the ground from leaps of faith,
Your mind she never hummed so dull,
My soul he never brimmed so full,
Your bony fingers picking locks,
They laid your head on writer's blocks,
Waiting for the axe to fall,
On how you never liked them all,
A hatchet gripped you faith discard,
Your weilding hand it bristles hard,
To thickly paint his morning black,
All buried smartly in her back.

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