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my smile
stitched my face
like a crocodile
beaming
top deck
of the 63
as we ride
the dark
outside
Sam Lawrence Sep 2
my old dog feet
won't
carry bones
padding over floors
tiny paws and tiny toes

in a street of lights
new smells
hollowed out
do you see reflections
of the wonders outside?

downstairs stop!
am I
lead right?
as plain as pain
my heart is a bleed

bathe me again
buckets
soapy warm
may well never
fill me to the brim
Sam Lawrence Sep 1
My city is awash with dreams,
some are painted on the walls;
they're lurid like a migraine,
lucid as a hummingbird.

My lover is a dreamer too,
she speaks a partial truth;
her words are like a fragment
of my city's only street.

She told me how she's searching
for the palaces of glass,
but every pocket map she's had
is a labyrinth of folds.

When all the squares were folded tight
and pressed upon themselves,
she walked along the creases
and fell into my world.

Beneath the neon blindness
of a piercing blue night,
we fused into a lump of clay
and lay down on the earth.

My city is a towered forest,
tearing pockets from the skies.
Crowds in heaven peer below them;
a precarious insight.
Sam Lawrence Aug 11
little man, big man
funny Mr Punch
tangled up his string
turned into a glove
was a man above
now a man below
swinging at the missus
in his very own show

bad man, devil man
anger in his bones
fighting the police
with a ******* rod
has he a conscience?
has he any pride?
what about the real man
who is hidden inside?
Sam Lawrence Aug 11
I don't know how long.
Before I understood it had changed?
An hour? A day?
The seƱora appeared on her balcony;
gathered washing,
glanced up,
closed the door behind her.
I blankly searched the empty sky.
A seagull swooped.
Gradually, boats in the harbour turned,
now facing the other way.
Suddenly, a new wind blew;
hot, breathless gasps of air.
No cicadas.
Silence.
A few raindrops fell like birdshit,
splatting on the stone steps.
I'm sure all these things have names,
if you were local,
you would know them all.
I have no other words.
Sam Lawrence Aug 4
We'll live
We'll live with it
We'll learn to live with it
We'll need to learn to live with it
We'll learn to need it
We'll need it
We'll live
Sam Lawrence Aug 4
His allotment is just far enough away
from trouble. Habit, more than desire,

seeds the ragged weeks. Early risers
together, he cannot stifle a routine.

Her Marked Clinical Decline isn't yet
their epicenter. Fearlessly emptying

Stella cans, through the euphoric
atmosphere to the Low Earth Orbit

of utter despair. Eccentricity doesn't
favour equilibrium. Growing may heal.
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