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John Edward Smallshaw
Poems
Nov 2016
Open season
By the time you hear the shot
it's either too late and fate's dealt a blow
or it's not and you live
to fight another day.
Sounds only get in the way of the silence
precious moments
when silence is the sound of the shot.
Doped up with ***** is the only hope
left for men,
we
take a concubine
or a glass of wine
think that things are fine
and
then the shot.
Written by
John Edward Smallshaw
68/Here and now
(68/Here and now)
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318
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,
Lunarian
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Samuel Hesed
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Elizabeth Squires
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