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Ken Allan Dronsfield

Eight Stone Three

the ugly writers
A great inhale lights the pipe wait for a reddish moon to rise ballerinas twirl on the sea wall faces expressionless; eyes cold.


the ugly writers
I'm here, always here, and he's there, staring,always glaring, forever daring me to move.But no, no, no, I won't, I cannot.. I have neither

Absence of Presence

the ugly writers
As the demons and hunger invoked sincere repentance for thieving loaves of bread. Whilst all distressed lives calmly exhaled their last before the hot ovens inhaled the dead.