money put aside for money will money into money its the same with semen, but stickier than honey so all things that can be saved can also be expended, and drowned in abandoned wardrobes of borrowed clothes were as solid as super funds, with interest compounding sameness runs every morning, like clockwork sameness, every day and every morning. I fall through insolence to meet you. And find glory meeting me my self-interest accumulating bull’s eyes in the wall of frantic necessity a necessity grown too large for denial. Like competition dancers grinning grimly, we swing time Money. money. money feng shui will do me undo me slivered thirty silver pieces of me semen pasted the strips into a sticky collage, grey art a dollar a pop the whole of my messy life on display — scrounging for a decent drink and fuck-up where’s my keycard possibly in the ghostly hands of the shadow treasurer Snow Jockey whose sordid tongue puts about ugly produce of unfiltered avarice well, you said money, honey… Only the bellboy is listening with his pale pink, shivery ear
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.
its the same with semen, but stickier
than honey
so all things that can be saved can also be expended, and drowned in
abandoned wardrobes of borrowed clothes
were as solid as super funds, with interest compounding
sameness runs every morning, like clockwork
sameness, every day and every morning. I fall through insolence to meet you.
And find glory meeting me
my self-interest accumulating bull's eyes in the wall
of frantic necessity
a necessity grown too large for
denial. Like competition dancers grinning grimly, we swing time
Money. money. money feng shui
will do me undo me
slivered thirty silver pieces of me
semen pasted the strips into a sticky collage, grey art a dollar a pop
the whole of my messy life on display –
scrounging for a decent drink and fuck-up where's my keycard
possibly in the ghostly hands of the shadow treasurer Snow Jockey
whose sordid tongue puts about ugly produce of
unfiltered avarice
well, you said money, honey…
Only the bellboy is listening
with his pale pink, shivery ear