He snarls at the multiplicity of the world
He dissembles
He wishes to drink up the sea
He has the combined wealth of
ten men, twenty men, a small island.
The devil is in him, il diabolo,
He is possessed, bewitched, zombified,
be careful,
He becomes quarrelsome on bad wine
and cheap mood-stabilizers,
is apt to harm anyone,
throws things around,
compasses, atlases,
refuses truth.
He has planted a dire crop in barren ground
He is a crippled helmsman.














Comments
The use of the word Atlas and Zombie as verbs is a nasty fuckin' gorgeosity (as in good), I love it when poets treat language like a weak wench, slapping her around and telling her what to do.
Point is, your language is leather and whip kinda one and it has this read on read on little reader kinda quality but it lacked a few slaps on our faces near the end. You have a mighty whip with nails and spikes that you never got to use on our demanding backs. Besides that, all lovely.
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your sweet six six six xxx
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The cracked-open surface of Time
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The cracked-open surface of Time
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The cracked-open surface of Time
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The cracked-open surface of Time
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your sweet six six six xxx
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