SCORN, lemming’s rush of recrimination, whose hostile
REIGN blankets all our time in unlifting fog, will not last. This
EPOCH will vanish, the air will clear, eyes will behold all beauty. The
FIGHT to know you and me beloved to each other will not seem a fight, just the short waiting before dawn.
Saturday morning serials
The
AGENT – I could tell he was wrong by the suit –
CLASHed with me. I brought to the fore all my skills, but the
KNAVE was more skilled. He mashed my face, the brute, and NUDGEd me closer to the edge. I was about to be killed…
If anybody can, the pecan can
The
PECAN has the highest fat content of any vegetable product;
PLANT them by the dozen in my garden then,
PURGE my body of tasteless, wasteful low fat vegetables,
STAKE my pecan plants high, multiply them by ten!
Emőke Dénes
The man with the lisp fights back
BE REThy to defend yourthelf. I’m about to
QUACK open your head for making fun of me. Sooner or
LATHEr it was bound to come to thith. A broken thkull
(SKULL!) on your part, some thatithfaction for me.
Here, but not
AGILE I ain’t, with the years piling up, and sitting
AMONG youngsters yahooing soon sends me off for a kip,
FLINGing away care to the soothing arms of the sandman, no SOUND disturbing the distant reaches of my oblivious brain.
Can’t be biffed
DODGY as dogs not on a leash are those who are
LOATH to the idea of keeping their brute in check, their
MACHO approach to dog-walking cavalier, and as for poo,
WHILE they pick it up if it suits them it mostly doesn’t suit.
All in a morning’s work
The
CANAL, after its flood-washed clean, wears a
SHEEN not seen since Adam’s boyhood: the
STEADy hand of God has scoured the side-skins to
UNITE the duct’s fresh grace with its pasture’s broad embrace.
For posterity
The Pirate Captain bangs his GAVEL;
the crew prod the blindfolded victim forward onto the PLANK.
‘Stop!’ shouts the chief, you’ll SPOIL
the photo. Stand up straight and don’t STOOP.’
Grannie cooks her last meal
GORGE yer food if ye must but know that yo’ll
SCOUR the pans, and the mixin’ bowl. Ma
SINEWs is WREAKed, wreaked, I say, and it’s
soon I’ll be down with the dust. Ay, dust’s to be my bedroll.
photo: Elxan Qəniyev
Rush
DULLY, with a kitbag, ‘neath the boiling sun, I sweat
FORTH to go where men will pounce on an
OUNCE of gold, and soon I hope to set my
STAMP just west of north, in a dry-bed gully.
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