Like the fine black dust of coal, it
settles on us; saddles us like stone game or
Custer cavaliers between the jawing maw of a rocky vale.
Snap of cold silver in the throat; anxious crackle and snap
of synapses; and our voices dry, coarse as straw.
It is the squaring of wild dogs off across
parchment plains;
Sense’s cession to the right of instinct,
for it is in my nature,
and your nature,
to harm as we are harmed
and, when scoping blows,
to score for the reddest meat.
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A tumbling barrage of ideas and images that fall from the mouth with a song of hidden rhythm.
Good to read, thank you.
You should share some of this at a London poetry event…John Paul Oneill runs a regular event under ‘ Farrago’, at the RADA foyer cafe about once a month. You can catch up with them through My Space and Facebook, under Farrago….
You should share some of this at a London poetry event…John Paul Oneill runs a regular event under ‘ Farrago’, at the RADA foyer cafe about once a month. You can catch up with them through My Space and Facebook, under Farrago….