Searching through old notebooks, old unfinished drafts, scribbles on scrap paper and also patchwork pieces from cut-up technique exercises, here are a few fragments:
Sitting on the train, underground where it trembles and
sways at the sound of its own clattering,
I try not to watch as a lady
sitting across from me
picks at her purple nail varnish.
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Under my tongue, tender and burnt, are the unwritten and unspoken
poems meant for August and meant for an audience.
They don't bud with the rest. They were blossom mid-February
at some sunset and nobody told them that Spring wasn't on its way.
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I never could avoid the deepest low after feeling any high.
I never learnt how to fall apart, and only with a sigh/
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Do you feel the day break across your window
then leave a bag of bones beneath your bed?