Post-Epic Editorial

14 December 2009
So the story goes: Glámis, the bride
not to mention harpur his prophetic dream of lawson exhuming
Sing to me of the woman, plaintive Muse,
1. sleepless thirty days:
The smoke cleared, crawling
the diary is a newstart fraud de art
Man walks into bar.
Once in a ruptured past before mutiny or Midnight's Children,
Single-parented most of the time, it's a wonder
Run! Run! Run run run run! For a safe climate!
The scissors hissed.
One heatwave day he throws me a sack/marked RetSenAdUn …
And you were that paradox,
Napoleon's plunder
in arid cities we have read as syntax flooded streets,
where does she stop
It helps to have a pedigree
at the moonlight splayed, shot on the dirt floor, silver and soft.
In the gods
Listen, o poet, to this marvel of the night.
When he enters the town–
The valley of his youth is going slowly bald
he was a beautiful thief in the night
Joined to his guilt by bonds of matrimony
Whose guts garland the dogs of Troy / Not Patroclus'
but we must feel there is something amiss
(BandAid Medical 422.02)
The arrival of the monsoon―
There once was a man who lived in a house
money put aside for money will money into money
These curtains, how they fluttered like wings.
the period of doubt
They all agreed. A kite was he
My head spins – the audacity of coming so close to the Gods!

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