({He[art]}ened)

When she felt bad,

art made her feel good.

When the structures 

of life became strict-

ures of life, without 

even either/or odd

evil rhyme to

reason with coolly,

she certainly and surely 

recovered her wise and 

wry understanding of how

little to expect from the 

thrive people promised,

and how much to enjoin a

battle with survive.

And that was OK, ‘cos that was

the way and the why and

the wot and the hot

and the shot that took

out any whit-

her and music and stuff which

she still was 

allowed to make her feel

better – if better, in

deed, was 

no sin.

But art – when all sold and 

told and moulded, and 

mouldy like stones

rolling oldly and oddly –

would always be there 

to save her sad day; would 

always be there to make

that life lay:

those whiles,

and wiles, and simply 

lived miles of the very 

private smiles she 

still was able to [sn-

{itch}] …





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