I like Magritte. Another who used text with pictures and looked beyond the obvious. A little bit of fantasy can open many new doors on reality.
That's right. There is a need for new doors as you say. The poem, as I won't call it, can hopefully open one or two. The reader might on second reading begin with the last line: this is not . . . and proceed after 'sometimes' to the top of the page and continue from there. In that sense one door is perhaps opening . . .
that looks like my scribble books words nudging into each other without having relative meaning in sense amplifying themselves as the sun rising on an empty sea draws a picture of the other shore beyond the floating feather of a duck without a passport searching for a thought that would settle in someones mind or linger in the clouds where progressive eye thoughts punctuate imagination as a leaf falls in tomorrows tide
I discovered some forgotten scribble books and folders yesterday when I was putting out moth traps and amongst the trove was the above, so that's why it's here again 'after all this time' as we like to say. Time and tide may wait for no man but the idea of the feather as a thought drifting on an empty sea I like.
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