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Jun 2015
who lights fires
who's smoke fills the slow ticking house
resting on its grass stained elbow
gnawing at the apples branches in the can't be ****** orchards
once I burned in a yellow room of vases
and dreamt of naked canaries with curtains pulled away from tug of war ocean
It was too much to conceal
and I fell into the secrets of bridges, the sacrifices of
hedges that are ghostly in carparks, that are the moons dandelions
that are nothing to everyone
that pulled speakers from ribbed cages and trampled on the curves
of their ***-doll music, flattened their supermarket haze into
the bickering cages of their stabbed backed rooms
I flowered beneath the sickest of suns, became strong and unrecognisable for awhile
but I recognised myself in the final chapters of these just begun pages
and suddenly I could speak again
I was no longer nervous
I carried you through the coldest of places
we threw the stars back to their homes.
Written by
George Henry
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