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Slugs, wet and sticky like a woman, become this place. The lawn grows thick and wiry, tousled, a verdant mound of Venus. Shrubberies and weeds clash not in disarray, convey no chaos, rather mingle and mix in splashes of colour, shades within shades of green, brilliant, cooling green, swelling, swaying in burgeoning expression of fertility itself; life's own ability to renew and redouble life; the inexhaustible source springing from the loins of water and earth, fire and air. An elemental majesty displays itself here, buzzing lazily in the moist sunlight as fattened flies ready to impregnate all that is rotting with a new life, maggoty life. Or become themselves food in the nets of patient spiders that fill even the airy spaces with symbols of the desire to thrive. Moist and pungent like sex, at once violent like a thrusting, driven coupling, yet calm, quiet like the tranquility of consummation achieved, this garden was rank and dank, an eyesore to the community, its overabundance a threat to all austerity, to great expectations withheld, withdrawn, a blight to the diligent keepers of other castles who view nature as mathematical precision: trimmed, edged and bound into servility, bound however, by slaves to bondage, slaves reminded daily by this garden of futility and of their own fetters.

Comment by Jack Hodgins in Creative writing 301 : "Rich sensuous imagery. You have a feel for the sound and texture of words. Consistent tone."





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