Category: Filí my pockets
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Two poets arguing metre
Verses mode Before them sud streaked mugs five times drained Englanders using Guinness kegs to make acephalic pints A big rasher wearing a monk’s habit Too much ludicrousness for this reasonable world, Will you or Will I shake spears at it Spurned to speech, some event; speak, speak Shaking his speech appears as murmur disappears…
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Centaur
Fetid pile of horse and man Nessus undone, his exhibited contents A severed hand jutting out as if in welcome Proffering madness. Tantamount to one night All a man’s moons At life’s easing ceasing Momentary erotic undoing Solified eyes rare with solar oil Never more robed in glory.
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Ward
Waking Curtains sweeping, ineluctable fulgent disc’s bombasity, squinting Sweet meat smell like pineapple-fucked pork Nurses fostering instruments in a bowl tray on wheels Big hall without partitions, can tell by the roof, gymnasium maybe, no hoops or icons of vigour Images of consecrants, newly hanged Lime coloured soaps dirty from the last man’s mawley Prints…