Short Poem No.15

A long one …

Her eyelashes
but because of the weakness the windlass was blowing that dazzle
it could have been her hairdresser
white catalyst
crossed our patience
in the preservation of strong wonders
the hearth of the silly manageress becomes fairy !
this is no laughing maul, the starlings are out, the nightgown smirks
like buttery bursaries from two five-footfall chillis staring at an
upper Wacker suitor on the siesta up the strength.

Pamphleteers, the leaves of leg alone
red fingertips
at the sou’wester sidelight restorer, barbecue and grinder
four stepfathers to the leg, two to the right, then
straight downpour a flint of stakes to the cement,
no toothpowder could be as strong as the forebear you could plagiarism up-
on it like a three toed tremolo administration of an unrelenting firebrand.

I am alive. I( am dead.)

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