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Upskirt (Calligraphy, Sucking Chest Wounds and Dirty Soles)

August 23, 2013

ninetyeight

All the copper’s spent.
And now my fingers taste like blood.
I ranched your roaming chattel.
Saved them from the flood.
I can’t recommend monogamy.
Its relevance ended in another age.
Caravans, cubic angels and palmistry.
Model Ts and the living wage.

But you’re such a little girl.
And you love to hold these things.
I’m a man.
And I don’t believe a horse can fly.
‘Cause I never saw a horse with wings.

I’ve a fondness for fervour
But it stops just short.
Of whales off the prow.
I’m owed a pound of flesh.
My delicious holy cow.

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From → Poetry

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