It is a skin warming sadness,A warm bath surrender Unto the slow, wrinkled stare - outInto the most ordinarily empty and Unceremoniously averageSounds, and single-coloured walls and shoesAnd hands and sugared cream-coffee and Rushed, always late walksThere is no eruptive Pain.No great knowing when, or where or how deepYour hands have buriedTheir skin-oiled canvas Beneath this stare.But i see it,Sometimes in full colour,Leaking into the everyday Unceremoniously average sadness.Each drip of usWashed awayIn such a quietly normalDaytime breath

June 2nd, 2014, 9am

David Wade, Shu and Michael want to know more.

David Wade, Shu and Michael said thanks.

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Chris Wright

A poet and campaigner, traveller and a trailer on a truck on a freeway in danger of being stopped on driving while writing false charges of rhyme, robbery and possession of illegal line endings

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