I’d like to kill the simple soil
and learn the sun, taste the air’s bitter rust, brandish my mouth like a sabre and worry about the compass with pins and art. I’d like to eat among stars and stones and heave my dirty stomach through the winter teeth, and I want my enemies to wolf along severally bad and I will grin with ruin like a god. There ought to be hurtling quartermasters and parades of juicy men whose backs we’ll pick along. the late trains will veer West to all the Henrys and Georges, for to live is to sink. Later, we can lean into the concierge like a disease and read the tatty tariffs. O the ague of silver lives. So take my arm, we’ll seek the bottle of our room now and paint the evening puce. And I intend our memories to hoist their pants over a cinematic street in Wolverhampton where the poor admire the Crimplene of Mrs Culthorpe as she seeks love over her prestigious pram. And I want to eat haddock on toast and burnt sausage and bananas, so that, principally, The President of the League of Confectioners will smell my breath as I lick the pristine years. On Sunday, we can boil eggs too long and laugh at each widow. Nothing can distil the bright glade. Even the shadows are crawling with our infancy. Everything will adhere to the many of us. Comments are closed.
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About MeChris Emery is a poet, editor and publisher. Archives
October 2017
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