this is something I've just started working on, as ever, italics are not
available, but I'd welcome any comments
Best
Dave
Alcohol
is what beckons. Watery, we slosh through our days, in secure pronouns,
swaying
like the sea. It's an unsteady affair
and wet, in intimate places, like sex, that turns us, like the yea great
globe , into
spinheads orbiting a blinding focus, till the ground, in persona pavement,
like a friend,
dearest, rises to greet us.
Parts of it mais oui French, that's foreign , translating a parfum pur a
parlance of
langour and refinements of regret, desirable so to we scattered fractured in
someone's
world wide and front parlous.
Honey you ferment in the earth's moist, a pot-bellied cauldron waits above
an unlit,
outside in night's hold someone shouts in unblended Scotch, and a Russian
doll called
death floats in the wood, alcohol, there must be some other reason for, he
said, as an
empty glass defined what is thud and an arm was seen, stranger than any
fiction, his.
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