Sunday, 10 July 2011

somnambulist poem

Englands had many ages
shes gentle in a storm
I knocked into her as a woman
in the night.
She said don't come,
the wine will spring forth
like sore cats
Stumbiling back on the
field
you'll
Inherit the rot,
rather than
The van Rijns
no more crossword poetry
the words will spill forth
like an African night
hungry, and doomed.

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