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Labyrinth

A lead block, that collapses on your chest
the Siberian winter that brings a slushing gushing snow
races around laps of teal veins, which sprout
from pallid oblong arms, like Hercules’s chariot as he chases
his second labour. A throbbing vessel, trapped inside
the hollowed white ribbon chamber, so as not to offend
the woman walking behind you, thunder herself.
Moist lips reach out, to burgle some last gulps of fouled city smog
thickly cut with dioxide, monoxide and the other one you learnt about
on school desks lined with Ribena bubbles and grapes that had burst at the seams,
wine juices that wrapped their arms around one another and ooze and spill  
onto golden syrup floors. Meanwhile though, puppet-string hands that could be taken off
with one wrong gust of wind. Not a slab but sleet, the shadow of a shudder, which lurks
in dim crevices and leers at the fact that you are yellow, not gutsy red.

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