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John Edward Smallshaw
Poems
Mar 2017
Empty chamber
On the bed sheets
or
the rap sheets
it's
a ***** shoot.
I practise limping
for
when I am limp.
In the boatel which is a
hotel on water
I taught myself to type,
the letters always came out wavy.
The only motion we know is fast
forward and slow down the tape,
the masked man in his cape is
climbing my walls
which makes a nice change from
it being me.
Written by
John Edward Smallshaw
68/Here and now
(68/Here and now)
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