|TO SUFFER THE WASHING-MACHINE|
I write to lure the mind to analyse |
the washtub we are placed inside.
The drain is under the Installation Manager.
It is badly-designed
by adults too close to wipe your friends with.
The fitter and Juliet are already sick.
The cupboard would describe this insight into the avant-garde —
cold body and poorly finished —
the fetishization of authority making an appointment in the dishwasher
looking at the bottom of the business thirty years ago.
The Installation Manager was a short-tempered man
but he wrote to you meanly.
The wall-unit fell off on Thursday.
I'm looking for the holes created by the snow.
I enclose a piece of the door
that creaked open and hummed along with the past;
it can stay here with your old drain.
Answer that conversation!
Spare us a good imitation of it!
A man rang to get someone in for fitting our marriage.
No-one was his name
but he would try
and mopped up in the end.
The electrical sockets for the dish-washer
wailed with a drip of glue
and a smell reminiscent of charm.
We turned off the cooker and pointed it out!
He was a bath.
He asked if I would like grains of it.
You were getting angry
and would have a wall unit there to keep
the kitchen from the leak that was there.
The drain under the baby woke to have them call their employees.
On the first floor we were kissing.
Regarding the floor, we also pointed out guidelines.
His blood flowed thickly to get someone to come back.
We knew this would work.
He loves us asleep.
He listened carefully, grinning foolishly.
|Mandy Smith was an English girl who was keenly interested in all kinds of writing. She died in 2009 but her blog Mandy's Meanderings is being maintained by friends.||
The Aabye's Baby Archive
© Mandy Smith, 2000
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This page last updated: 10th January 2010.