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5 SMALLS

 

I

glutton /

fat

fear pity

chunks

stuffing my subconscious

of savory denigration

 

 

 

 

clarinet sanguine

finding

sullen flute

morphs tender

coming

to be

a

clute

 

 

 

 

Desolation Hill –

where empty foxholes

up and run

backstabbing

lilacs smack

on last nite’s

dry bigots blood

where every every

day damn

gets freshly

squeezed wrung spun

by an

electric

orange juice sun

 

 

 

soft

mid December

eggplant night

falling snow

flakes

are paratroopers

dressed in white

carrying large

wicker

juju brooms

push & brush

their Town’s

evil away

 

 

 

a

why?

U

ask

a

how

I

answer

am

from

but

not OF

 

 

copyright 2016

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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About a. edward watkins

With the exception of 2 years study of western music theory and harmony- I am a self taught percussionist, writer and abstract painter. Not your drummer boy drummer - not your writerly writer nor the painterly painter. Creativity is an integral aspect of my existence - as it is for us all - in some form or another. My experiences in life have informed and shaped my world view profoundly. I am the disrupter - the never quite satisfied - the relentless creator of word, sound and image. I question the answers and question the questions.

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