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Written by: Paul Knight-Kirby

Writers block, or writers rot
Frazzled away, like granite rolling 
Stone blade, on subtle,nimble, 
gentle 
paper made, and such writings 
cannot be turned around, emotion 
or way of sound, for such actions 
play silently and deafly, upon a 
silouhette of forgotten shades,
Unappeasing any hint of splashed 
loomed cement,
In other words
Doom's lent,
so one must continue on two sub-
visions, upon three perceptions
into four erections, landmark 
proportions, thus lonely subjection
Given inner reflection
Your spiritual detective, has planted 
dual directives through the maze of 
the cloud inside your head, and 
suddenly unaware, not death
Just new estranged feeling breath
Third dimensional awakening
First awakening death blending the 
colours in audible steps becoming 
merging a rotor of matter, an 
concoction of dream dust, 
nightmare fluid layered in thickened 
blood and guts and flake flesh, 
bombed together in superior rush
In rhyming lust the crust the mush
Then trust, the bristle of whisker 
shaven grass
Under feet bare, shaking like 
bamboo its roots unapart
Limbered on level the hair of the 
rock.