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January 25, 2013


You’ve got some wealth about you.
A pocket bill and a tongue that toys.
A tryst and a tale with the truth.
Dusty books, you take down.
From study walls and tear leaves.
Sell them as precious Bibles.
To guest house maidens.
And the recently bereaved.

You’ve got some class about you.
Old fashioned death in a tin bath.
Ground glass and acid vats.
Rogues and cut-throat razors.
You’ve got a lot of guts to wade through.
In back room butchers.
From where the blood runs down the banks.
Your affected goose step takes the brunt.
Your manners carry you over it.
As you go slipping up the ranks.
Cologne on your cuff.
Cunt on your nails.

You’ve got a lot of grit in your teeth.
A little mercury for your baby, Sir?
A little laudanum to help him sleep?
Apothecary dust on your stiff upper lip.
Gaslight in your heart.
Tramping dirt down the harbour.
The soot on your soles.
Bearing coal.
Bearing rust.
Tipping your hat to the whores.
As you sail to the East.


From → Poetry

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