18 March 2010

Primitive Pianos

I dream this city
this city this city
of primitive
pianos
icy millions tell me so
tell me tell me oh
pulled tooth
pulled tooth
that left a hole a hole
my my my
uncooked trial
a jig with Roman wrestlers
a jig with Irish diplomats
my Irish pores are breaking
into the cold green waters
the cold muddy froth
father father I hear
the turnips preparing
in their ground
by the pale muddy
waters waters
we sink like any
old stone

4 Comments Add yours

  1. Simon Howard says:

    I love the title, Marcus (& the poem, too!).

    Simon

    Like

  2. postpran says:

    thanks so much Simon 🙂 🙂

    Like

  3. Kirsten says:

    A wonderful piece

    Like

  4. postpran says:

    thank you Kirsten 🙂 Your blog is making me hungry!!!

    Like

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