Tide Edit

By | 1 February 2014

Encumbered, embarrassed, he turns day to irony and spikes
each word onto the carpet

One come-down itches another, and perpetrates
its dreams of ghosts, haloed in gold

that black and white day ignores
The Academy turns opinion in its kiln of instructions

Show your merch. to the phone and pass over, trolls and summits
Temple of Heaven screws into sky

citations buttoned down a chart
whose copyists swirl

Downstairs pervious voice glasses the phone
Go out into the ute-green world, gleaming and catastrophic

Swift wind absconding time
now another April’s toasted sunset extinguishes its screen

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