Deeply odd, Trevor, like a set of eighteenth-century naughty postcards. I
like the change of direction. Keep us posted.
Randolph
----- Original Message -----
From: "Trevor Joyce" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Sunday, April 13, 2003 9:07 PM
Subject: Re: [POETRYETC] post dramatic stress disorder
> Okay, sounds like a plan. I'll claim rights to post another on the grounds
> that the previous was, largely, filched from the dead.
>
> T
>
> ***
>
> This hot,
> utterly jubilant
> baker,
> as I indicated, was investigating
>
> Some bright,
> yet sufficiently despondent
> nurse,
> who without difficulty
>
> Had solved
> a laughing
> (but a bit inebriated)
> carpenter's mega-
>
> Problem,
> and self-destructed completely
> without any warning. "Oh maid!
> Childish
>
> Smiling
> light of my life!"
> "That's quite enough,
> thou tepid artisan,
>
> Though on the lam
> still harking back."
> Whereupon a slightly dim
> transient
>
> Priest declaimed:
> "Fire of my loins!
> Life-sized
> exorbitantly playful
>
> Aviator
> of my passionate sky!
> I advance, a middle-aged
> adequately screaming
>
> Living man,
> occasionally frigid,
> now and again chatting
> a little."
>
> For example:
> "Oh female;
> dark, strange,
> almost hidden entirely,
>
> Somewhat minuscule
> girl,
> pranking hither and yon,
> and at this point
>
> Barely old."
> A boy begging
> familiar
> goods.
>
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