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David This is terrific, a feeling of terrifying fairytale or fable. Strangely, because it's nothing like him, it kind of reminds me of Ritsos - the feeling of estrangement, perhaps, in its intimacies - Best A >Quite literally just written this, so any comments are welcome > >Best > >Dave > > > >In those days an angel of tar wept, scalding the mud village >And the poet shrank, to the scrub fields, as the square >Thronged with the burnt voices of the hurt, pelting shadows, >That hid like strangers in caves, or walked alone, with blame. > >The poet grew thinner, like silicon, punching the desart waste >Softly with his head, like a lost love recalled, and as hunger >Stood up from his body, like a son leaving home, he thought >Of the sex of angels, man-woman both, and in slow fucks > >And long rhythms, he lay with the sky on both sides of his bed. >While the armies he fled from raised their standards in his head. > > > > > >David Bircumshaw > >Leicester, England > >Home Page > >A Chide's Alphabet > >Painting Without Numbers > >www.paintstuff.20m.com/index.htm > >http://homepage.ntlworld.com/david.bircumshaw/index.htm -- Alison Croggon Home page http://www.users.bigpond.com/acroggon/ Masthead http://au.geocities.com/masthead_2/