Here lies Martes Flavigula, eternally beneath the splintered earth.

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Poems -

Wafting ropes of
steam from
eggplant frying among
chopped leek
cling to the air - or
resin crooks down the
pale curve of
the tub, stitching violet
There are no both ways about it!
Greasy pointillism hangs on
the air in greys and
grey, elongating into
rivulets into fossilised
stalks and into
heartless resin. An
undead forest spreads across
the kitchen - so I watch from
the tub where I
dab my fingers into
red-brown resin.

Along with martens, goulish goats and the rippling fen -
these writings 1993-2023 by Bob Murry Shelton are licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

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