he was a beautiful thief in the night with a handbag full of greek syntax there was nothing he couldnt do right or wrong – or up or down, or east or west, nothing nothing could steal syllables he’d tucked into the tiny pockets and he lent from those he stole a dream Medea’s dream: a dream of might, eye sockets, dry and pale. When the scooter stalled, letters clattered loose over stone bottlenecked, in the participles of success his beauty blinded. His swagger, lost in the night. And how the night edits! He steps into the gaps between the words, curls around a comma like a tadpole, for language swims our blood and and curdles our silent scream this thief in the night all father land and mother tongue pebbled the night ’scape stoned jar slaked no thirst like this ransomed meter run Touched my life and broke my heart with his quicksilver tongue that strung fairy lights into the night sky as he seduced and stole the moon and slipped her pale light into his pocket just to illume you or so he said. The fairy lights paled in the morning and the moon was gone altogether and not only that, a fierce storm was rolling in – it looked like rotten weather so he hoist her sails and in he plunged pity he got caught -beauty should be free He turned her blood, her life's stream, into a black sea that with it's rage rose like a tsunami the hurt – it feels so real if I could warm that hurt and make it subside… which I cannot, because a thief is a thief! a criminal, accountable for vexations he has caused ah! yes ! he mused, love is a thief… yet none complain of its robbery… now if i were to steal the priest's golden cup and give its contents by deception to the unbelievers still my cup runneth over to thievery's side spoiling for tales with a slick sleight of hand brilliant dramatic monologue … some guys get the order wrong so many times. … dam that golden fleece. A poet? He's the guy who writes the insides of Hallmark cards. Wish you were here. Not. Aaaah, yes, the morning after diatribe… well now, girl…you knew the risk to diss a thief. I know a poet writes with feeling. but Re Yolly’s comment. Forgive my youth but who is Yolly wishing not to be there?? The thief???
31.1: POST-EPIC
Released 1 December 2009 - 1 August 2010Index of Poems
Editor/ Producer: David Prater
Each of the poems in this issue starts with a line from a poem in EPIC. All lines are in fact comments that were added by readers. Scroll down each page to find out who wrote what! Or read the post-epic post-mortem.
with a handbag full of greek syntax there was nothing he couldnt do right
or wrong – or up or down, or east or west, nothing
nothing could steal syllables he'd tucked into the tiny pockets
Medea's dream: a dream of might, eye sockets,
dry and pale.
and he lent from those he stole a dream
When the scooter stalled, letters clattered loose over stone
bottlenecked, in the participles of success
his beauty blinded. His swagger, lost in the night.
And how the night edits!
He steps into the gaps between the words, curls around a comma
like a tadpole, for language swims our blood and
and curdles our silent scream
this thief in the night
all father land and mother tongue
pebbled the night 'scape
stoned jar slaked no thirst like this
ransomed meter run
Touched my life and broke my heart
with his quicksilver tongue that strung fairy lights into the night sky as he seduced and stole the moon and slipped her pale light into his pocket just to illume you
or so he said. The fairy lights paled in the morning and the moon was gone altogether
and not only that, a fierce storm was rolling in – it looked like rotten weather
so he hoist her sails and in he plunged
pity he got caught -beauty should be free
He turned her blood, her life's stream, into a black sea that with it's rage rose like a tsunami
the hurt – it feels so real
if I could warm that hurt and make it subside…
which I cannot, because a thief is a thief!
a criminal, accountable for vexations he has caused
ah! yes ! he mused, love is a thief… yet none complain of its robbery… now if i were to steal the priest's golden cup and give its contents by deception to the unbelievers
still my cup runneth over to thievery's side spoiling for tales with a slick sleight of hand
brilliant dramatic monologue …some guys get the order wrong so many times . …dam that golden fleece.
A poet? He's the guy who writes the insides of Hallmark cards.
Wish you were here. Not.
Aaaah, yes, the morning after diatribe…
well now, girl…you knew the risk to diss a thief!
I know a poet writes with feeling. but Re Yolly’s comment. Forgive my youth but who is Yolly wishing not to be there?? The thief???