A poem by SAM HUDDLESTONE
Watered correspondence –
tiled beak covering –
catching remainders of the sizzle
between socket and plug.
Place the hollow bottle over the flame;
hear it –
You might charge for this.
One hand in front of the other
– wall to wall –
for the compilation deck:
collected, internal RSJs.
The dog’s panting is still better than
everything in the Radio Times this week.
Less lethal, too.
Whirled forward by knowing
I exist to other people as paintings.
Uncredited; this is scary.
I walk for hours to shuffle them
into the deck of the walls.
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