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Homing

Cruel electric fiesta. Banners of at least
fiscal resentment in sandy frippery
undone, at last the ichor would polish,
rehydrate & lexicon swim, bantam or muddy
episode soothe, post-haste, reluctant hordes
                                of love’s old raisins & desultory
gangsters,
                                glamour’s so swanky these days.
                                All slacken and puddle in brisket,
                                old juice peppered, infected mules
                                virulent as sprockets, each can drool
on decadent corban from such arsing about
brazen gasses as the fame brigade filled with remorse
show the muscles’ true wielding mud capitulating,
may have brought down round abouts an abandoning
of tribes. A glean of truth in the fervid reliquary,
                                such sweet hanging, though
                                eludes arrogance of limbs.
                                Mortar fire licks fever, levers the
banyan
                                in khaki verdure. Gorgeous
                                shanks of hair in the shag pot
compensating for albino romance, I cannot quite recall,
not quite, though in saying this should fist
the lewd one skedaddling amid the ash flecks.
Lemon song, the lemon groves’ quarter
in half light  sparkling, twinkle,wangle
                                nor in forest, what a mug, sanction
                                or count on perfection’s lips
                                though they are slugs.
                                Is it bony demotic, fishy skulls
                                had their impact on further steads
feel these grey chancres accordant with the facts,
or so, so gloomy as rickets, pasty frisson. Seeds. Reckon
on loopy dreams of shaved eggs Digression is red hot
as counter measure corrupts. So much so this thing
as a thing denigrated, woolen souls for straw beds.
                                Has the perpetrated act come:
                                I am lying in the field.
                                The field is blue. The field is red.
                                The wrecker shimmers and spindles
                                of crimson lake spew. Dear crimson mud.
Only skin enters recognition. My land is scum,
arbor of salt, only luke warm, salt slats in tin.
I remember ribbons, ribbons of such beauties,
as razor wire scooped, callous as a hug
though pilfering we made mistakes
                                castigated the weaker turds. Eyes
learned most
                                from inveterate crawlers. Capering
crepuscular,
                                though spring is exorbitant for tv.
                                Shagged, rusty, sun bucket. Ragtime
host.
                                Entrácte of prawns and monitors.
For cocks as we despise only errands.
The fruits hang and the limpets cling for bonny
bonny times, mildly erotic floribunda,
fronds and finicky grasses. All stank for tricks. More heat please,
more filth. I’m only other than stink in the pocket
                                & fibres & dust & ants, mitre of
redundancy,
                                florid little canker or limitless
iridescence
                                of scabs. Shabby game of mission,
                                young and futile as each came, took hold

                                of it & Pluto & Nixon & Mozart
& Marlene led me away, beckoned in
the mists of old limbs, the slags I’ve seen. For all stages in
chemicals, so truculent. As the lucid clavicle all dung of slight
protrusions, the climax of the fostering in
meandering, by girdle as flux informs and denudes home
--
All the best,

Chris

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Christopher Emery






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