Morning
The humid dawn
oozed
like soft, half-baked clay,
through the hands of a
soft, half-assed sculptor.
It squeezed,
like spiders,
into every nook, cranny
and
hole.
-Terence.
fuck hot humid mornings.
Monday, August 08, 2005
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1 comments:
I don't think the second stanza achieves anything. Effect is there though, playing on the usual concepts of mornings as beautiful etc.
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