Alex Boyd Poems

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i can honestly say i tried to
flick
them

off

varnishing the porch in spring with Dad
but it isn't as though i could stop,
so our brushes swept like some bad thought
and thick drips of paint dropped like snakes,
filled up the cracks where some made small homes.

On the surface i laughed to my Dad
we must have ruined their day
while feeling prickly imaginings
of tall
and creeping waves

of
sticky
death

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