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lovely. the imagery is sprinkled drily throughout. I watched an episode of Tony Robinson's "Worst Jobs in History" or whatever it's called, it included a bit about making fine bone chinaware; they peel the rotting flesh of the animal off the bone first, and it stinks to high heaven. would've been an eye-opener to the upper class knobs who drank from those cups. anyway, this poem is very 'weekday', 'everyday', 'workday'.. there's no good word for it, though those all mean the same: it's "arki" in finnish. this poem is "runollinen" [poetic] and "arkinen" [everyday]. KS On 28/11/2007, andrew burke <[log in to unmask]> wrote: > i've been trying to write a poem about > a bone a great big fat dried-out > multi-knuckled bone > which lies on the path > just before the side gates > to the school > well after you have stepped over > the third mound of drying horse shit > crunched a million fallen leaves > and kicked the obligatory piece > of detached engine part (maybe > a fanbelt or a short thick solid hose) > out of the way > > but the poem won't stick through > slippage of association to > back-bone gnawed to the bone > boning her dry as a bone all these links > blunt the bone the _real_ bone > in front of me where i would > otherwise have landed my right foot > a brahman bull's bone > picked clean by dogs crows ants > dried out by days of sunshine > > bone is better in the dirt > than on the page > it's no sculpture until it is > in a gallery > its referential reality > tucker for this mob > backbone of a weekly killer > ten dollars a head > all the meat you can eat > > my head full of > ants crows and dogs > as i go into class > > -- > Andrew > http://hispirits.blogspot.com/ > http://www.flickr.com/photos/aburke/ >