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Paul Grimsley

I laid my hand on your head
Like a spirit-level for thought
And looked you in the eyes,
Gauging depths:
Iridology like a touchstone,
Under the knitted brow.
I flatten your tongue out
Under a spatula
And get you to slur a-a-a-h,
No teeth to remove from your
Biting criticism.
In the pocket behind left breast
Ticks the pump you lock photo's in --
I chanced across the key
And think about setting pandora free:
A hermit in a box
Shaken up with regrets
Kaleidoscopes through various patterns of behaviour;
An eye peered into down a tunnel vision
Whose throat you strangle
In control;
From a part I read the whole.

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