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Domesticity
Tomorrows and all our next days pass clipped to a paper clip. Our hunting’s pale begins our nines and ends our fives to bring home no killed meat, no pure grained grain
Tomorrow’s tedium would not look back to glance a knowing eye on yesterday, he has clown’s pride has he wills no pain knows no embarrassment, sunup’s only boredom’s child
But night he dances gas lit moon contempt on tinsel days to revive the stunted stunt of daylight dreams
Our playtime, night time, never pass away |
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Copyright Graeme Murphy 2000-2021 |
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Fitzroy 1993 |