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“I call him “Old Bold-Stones” Within a ribbed structure built not unlike a cage Yet, not having the same quality of confinement, The open box of the day was lying Lid unhinged to a swing of mourning whales all dressed in widowhoods. Sunset's blood threw a spotted sop – That kaleidoscope in the spout Of the great sperm-son's vent. Come, crash me thunderdown. Come, flash me whipplecrack. Wave winged Sweat wet. Frond weed. Pondweed. And as thunderdown of policemen Shouting the empty place neath The arches of the once-red now Brown, grey sandstone bridge, Trout with a suspicion of feet lurking quiet in unseen spaces between frond weed and bold stones.” — Gordon Roddick
I call him “Old Bold-Stones”
Within a ribbed structure built not unlike a cage
Yet, not having the same quality of confinement,
The open box of the day was lying
Lid unhinged to a swing of
mourning whales
all dressed in widowhoods.
Sunset's blood threw a spotted sop –
That kaleidoscope in the spout
Of the great sperm-son's vent.
Come, crash me thunderdown.
Come, flash me whipplecrack.
Wave winged
Sweat wet.
Frond weed.
Pondweed.
And as thunderdown of policemen
Shouting the empty place neath
The arches of the once-red now
Brown, grey sandstone bridge,
Trout with a suspicion of feet
lurking quiet in unseen spaces
between frond weed and bold stones.