thoughts about paper bruise her mind
in quantities, unleashed and then crumpled
the bins of the world
would be mache-faces
making balloon moulds of old newspapers
fascinations about morbity & obituriues
politics of yesteryear or today -
the indifference of liars
she makes props with scissors, stones
and flips coins to make a words
plays like a sixpenny sweet mix-up
[as a child she read all the C.S Lewis stories]
maybe if the wardrobe door opens
into a land of Bukowski's dribbles and Rimbaud's debauched environs
where cheap booze would make her pen itch
& money really did grow on trees,
Spike Milligan once said that he saw Jesus on a train
if he did - would he have asked him about Ning Nang Nong poems and life?
she never writes in diaries unless it's a reminder
scribbles things in indelible ink to rely on parity
pure skins unfold like ancient hands
that have held things:
children
the dying
pens
brushes
knives
silver spoons
and of course
the blood of the poet
Silver trophy winner
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