In the garden

D.David croot
2 min readAug 10, 2022

D. David Croot has been writing on and off (pretty much continually) for nineteen hundred years. He is no preternatural creature, no real special abilities or heightened desires to speak of, but he’s put in his four-trillion hours and it’s all for you my sweaty precious and sublimely beautiful creatures.

It truly is an honour to be read, feel free to share comment and tell me how much you hate my writing!

really tear it apart!!!

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In the garden

Summer, winter, spring again…

Stomach of untimely ulcers

Face as red as the liver that’ll drown you from the insides

But you always wave at everyone

But never talk for too long a time

The odd word

The accepted parse phrases

What do you eat

I can see into your living room

There’s a big arse lardy television that is rarely on

and looks as though it smells like Sunday dinner

And never been redecorated since you appeared there

Living life in sloooo-motion

What scarred you long ago

What were you like

Before life beat you

Content to do nothin but

Tend to your own garden

Content to drink in moderation

So you do not throw up you guts

I cannot imagine joy on your face

I cannot envisage a world that could give

Anything worthwhile

You live round the corner from me

And I know nothing about you

But still you wave

And still you live

And still you continue…

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D.David croot

Deviant novelist, candlelit poet stuck in archaic notions of a renaissance man who fails to give a shit…