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So stomp like a hungover dinosaur,
do the Stalin shuffle over bodies
( in the singularpringular in this case, Josef)
- one impaled on a nailbed left on a shelf,
flatter than a swizz Schweppes,
or pressed flower some cuckolded colonel
relinquished on the Eurasian steppe.
For you tread on my dreams.
Or at least their autumnal smithereens,
crackling like a staticwauled chorus of Karma Chameleon,
now you tread on my red, gold & greens.

& any dark green shoots of maturity,
red & gold corolla of survival's beauty
protruding from the shooter turned inonme
(as if some flowerpower intercessor
lovemugged the [email protected],
schmoozemissiled an armistice with the *******,
me-shaped gap where no magisteria overlap)
would be just another
humble hardwon
holding con, settingmeup
like an unassuming dawn the Day Of The Bomb.
Feeling all the more wretched
for that sweet breakfast of Frosties & water for one,
before a glimmerofhope nuclearbored me like the Bomb,
another home invasion of unrequited love  
discomboburaping me of the normalcy
of nice isolation & neat avoidance.

I have engaged private security firms
in my every Englishcountrygarden.
I've cemented broken glass atop the rainbow.
If there is even the remotest chance I might fall in love with you,
get lost.
Francie Lynch Apr 2015
The tour guide was usually a taxi-driver,
But for a few extra Euros, he was my guide.
Jobs are scarce.
For two hours we toured Yeats Country,
Me, sitting beside this man of letters, and for once,
Enjoying the drive and not the anxiety
On Irish roads.
They're narrow and winding to Ben Bulben,
With stops at neolithic stone circles, burial mounds,
Passageways and, A Fairy's Fort.
The culmination was  Drumcliff Churchyard
Where I was to prove his existence.
He has an unassuming stone,
One usually doesn't linger long,
But my Guide stood beside me,
And suddenly recited,
The Fiddler of Dooney.
I was sure it was Yeats' accent,
This unassuming poet.
I did as bid,
I
Cast a cold eye,
And stood glad that
I
Wasn't him,
As I stopped,
Before passing by.
Drumcliff Church is Yeats' burial place.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
angry men who do not know I do not have a dollar or a cig to spare. Ugly irrefutable contagion-handed howlers. Angry mischievous heathens that pantomime on 6:00a.m. sidewalk, Wicker Park gallow stop-sign, choreographed gutter-punk drunk walk. And of all he wants and could ever want splits down his gooey membrane brain in the outline of a noun shaped fragment of a clause, "Couldja spare 80¢ for the train," but of course I don't spare on the ellipsis or the period. Semi-colons I won't! My rubber-bottomed leather boots lash out, heavy scraping sounds trail this mirrored shadow half an angle behind me.

*****!! Blonde framed sunglasses from American Apparel, a gift from my sister in a folded Ray-Ban case is scattered on last nights bedroom floor, my girlfriend has certainly not noticed, the gloom-coated morning sun spray has not noticed; but I have unzipped a fissure in the ocular lens. My heart skips a beat. Her bedroom might as well have swallowed them whole. Now the house can halt and have the shade, swaying in Spring air in 10:22a.m. shadows. The aviator himself Howard Hughes would strike me with his 488 aircraft. Edwin Starr in his invincible sinister calypso of War would turn me round. I was sturdy as a rock until I began to forget my forgottens. These unknown unknowns I knew I needed. I'm over a quarter-century on to noon going nowhere- and quite blindly.

But then, still she could stand upright and find me. Her neck crooked, looking onward through the East, the gristly roots of rhubarb buried in her searching fingernails. She's threaded worse, and of course if I could just tell her- this is the kind of nursing which requires acute temperament and flexibility. I am thus on a journey to strike nonsense and fear from the idiotic vocabulary that put this nonsense in my head. Split through me like a butter knife into my apotropaic. Perhaps tar water could cure my ails. If not, certainly a sliver of vanilla would set me straight. Or if could just rain rain rain all day, then I'd make do without, but she is at school. My pistons are racked and nervous, and I'm not going anywhere but my rucksack stoop. I am camped in midwestern Spring soup. Fog, rain, and shade. The nightmare of day.
Inspired by William Butler Yeats 'Beautiful Lofty Things'

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