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ride out
As the worm turns,
Crow sets his course,
Khea Kia under furrowed brow –
Bloodied ice crown!

Carrying a hollow chest et al,
Through which a breeze does blow
There are gates and trunks so small –
That swing heavy, that swing lead!

And there’s no air to breathe,
It’s too close for me
Waking up on the wrong side of hell
With no cable and vertigo!

And the thin black strips and carved lines,
Sing rucks and folds are alive.
Shielded dualist patterns flawed -
Watch me touch down.

And we will ride out!

‘Poporo my cod roe’

Guilded is the point of refuse,
The germ devours too much for two –
It’s the habit that I wore in love –
Sick, wheezing, failed!

So I left the machine airbourne –
Steaming train tracks and rotten maps.
There’s only dull woven toys
In this garden of bloodied backs!

Yet still, there’s no air to breathe,
It’s too close for me,
Waking on the wrong side of hell
The derbies, the vertigo!

Defunct is this nation of hags,
They whip us up then dress us in drag.
Well, honour be that bitches name,
Watch us touch down.

And we will ride out!
 
 
 
© 2007 andrew plummer
 
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