URBAN

torn black streets echo in grey clouds under a blue sky. cemented high rises curtains to a crowded audience. rubber spines of beggars bent under the heavy sun. slow shutter speed many faces trapped in an obscure plot. Advertisements

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The Chief

The Porqupine Stood in the middle of the road, Quills pointed in defence mode, He was going to write a novel, With my blood And his hundred quills. The twilight twisted slowly into night, And I stepped back Out of respect For he looked like a native American chief With his white and black spears  […]

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