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                                       Tuesday with Little Spain
                                              by Will Dockery

And I am shoved back into this night life,
well she said, she said, she said it was impossible.
There is a place, it smoulders, it is the past, dreamtime,
wander these dark corridors of memory.
I sleep so deep, I donÕt like to sleep,
my dreams threaten to wash me away
Floating in a sea of bad vibes, I do these things over and over,
repentatively, feel regret but keep doing it over and over.
Then the whole thing becomes a blur.
Grey and pasted, patched together with spackling
and sheet rock mud, a disgusted perversion of humanity.
During the decline and fall of poetry, in the summer of sardonic excess,
I sat with Little Spain and felt her softness.
Still a sky poet, though tattered and glowing, 
brought down from Blue Territory, no longer in Blue Territory.
I wandered by a cold river in the flaming copper land of summer.
This complete process of remaking we had, your mix of pales & shades,
your, distinctive, mythic self, one distinct sing of your eyes...
I must bitterly understand our fate, we were never meant to be,
like lost in the mirrorÕd rooms of a crazy house.
Crimson on the napkins,
pink fuzz on the clover.
Maneuver to the left, and forward,
into a mud soaked future.


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Tuesday with Little Spain is copyright 1998 by Will Dockery