Saturday, January 17, 2009


amid the day seas
Roger Moore
as the underground manager

takes his dignity
where our tennis
mends the mining

Ray Milland
as W.C. Fields
has a bbq text
likely to grow hair
on a doorknob

and Big King Nkulu
wears his best suit
but the helmet still
smells of spray paint

and Susannah York
all agape
like Johannesburg
from the hot shore
from the gold mine

where solid gold
W.C. Fields androids
are being constructed
by infinite legions
of Sir John Gielgud clones
wearing snake-pale
for psychic templars

the caverns are illuminated
by teeming phosphorescent
lithop buttock lanterns
which divide like hydra
in the dust, and shine
above his collective head
not Moore, who is quite
the moral idiot, and brave,

There is a tiny zulu idol
inside every W.C. Fields,
and Ray Milland is killed
by something called a



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Irrony Observes The Earthing.