The plexus of poetry,
perpetually beautiful,
eschews a land
brought barren
by the bland and
simple self.
The little one looks on
a small, dark stream
and makes
beautiful connection
with the glen
chosen by a God
free of envy.
Praised by sea laurels
through etto false,
to meet a rocky
crumbled town.
Who is Sylvia?
What is she?
That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair and wise is she.
She is the land.
I think that one will be well worth the time sorting out the punctuation.
Oops too much 'of'.
Burn baby burn.
Heed not the siren calls
of of gorgeous glens
or black and dappled streams
that babble, never slide,
upon their asses
at the nexus
of firm folded
hoof unstoned.
So that's what a 'drugs mule' means - a donkey with two joints!
I don't approve of double jointed donkeys.
Wow. Talk about Postmodernism. Now Write Club's gone self-reflexive on our asses!
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Malpoet
Wed 28th Jan 2009 09:46
The punk who tuated it is really beyond sorting.