Not more separ’…
Feels of a spare part
Rats down the drainscopes
The horror of a horror-scope
Skins
Feels like … things
Of some sort
All the small things, as if pulled from a tap
Draught, in draft
On paper – notes
Not more than essential points
The fine point of many fine things
In the counterspy of pointillism
Feels like lines like line
Upon the lined paper, and here goes criticism…
Full of, out the unknown canine smudges these notes of sharp
Not much difference, look ou’ as scaried as shark, so hurried…
Still, cold as stone, sick as sick child, full of it yet faultied…
Not much point of curry running mild
If hot is all they’re got then let it spread?
Not much living when most of all, ‘tis the dead
‘tis the season to be jolly,
Somehow, we must’ve forgotten the holly
feel the cave dance of cavers sacrificing enemy
(teeth t'around taled neck)
not much of a whole when strike is never plenty
or enough
not much of much
feels like head rush, when a slow fin’ comes
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