Like rope and pulley work to hold up pink
and stodgy cherubs. Like the apple of my
iPhone, faint of charge. Like the superfluity
of biker’s arms or the big and little words
of lovers’ cells. Like the stylised tantrum
of youth rejecting the tutelage you feigned.
Like shy graffiti or the bling of cases. Like
the cashing trees. Like toddlers hovering
at the margins, where dragons used to be,
or a high-speed ransack of outdoors.
Like sudden mushrooms blooming pages
between or the screwdriver of your pocket
knife taken to canvases. Like your skywriting
jet gunned down mid-cliché. These trifles.
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