Monday, June 16, 2014

NECROPOLM II






In times of great chaos every poet must turn Martial so as to replace
the good name of Earth with that of Polycharmes, for what is the better gift,
a dose of Soterial sarcasm, or a funny chrome dolphin with rear view mirrors
being ridden by some polychrome Eros combing its long fair wringlitude
into verses versus none or all?

Aphrodite still bathes in the long and groaning trough word.