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Literature Text
You're on the lawn, pickled
as a paper-bag philosopher, mouth full
of copper and oxidised vinegar—
eyes oystering ant-sand and your cheeks wet
as the tracks of unhappy snails.
It's almost dawn, it's cold. The bastard
left you, and you've fallen over
in the garden coming up the path to home.
By morning, frost crackles
across the black hump of your back -
soon you'll be glaciered to the grass,
face iced to your coat-sleeve,
and the great, frozen spectacle
of you will grind its way, ten inches a year,
toward the porch. Some day
they'll discover you, the remains
of dandelions stuck in your teeth, fresh
as ten thousand years ago.
as a paper-bag philosopher, mouth full
of copper and oxidised vinegar—
eyes oystering ant-sand and your cheeks wet
as the tracks of unhappy snails.
It's almost dawn, it's cold. The bastard
left you, and you've fallen over
in the garden coming up the path to home.
By morning, frost crackles
across the black hump of your back -
soon you'll be glaciered to the grass,
face iced to your coat-sleeve,
and the great, frozen spectacle
of you will grind its way, ten inches a year,
toward the porch. Some day
they'll discover you, the remains
of dandelions stuck in your teeth, fresh
as ten thousand years ago.
Suggested Collections
true story
published in The Flea, March 2011
you may notice differences in the final lines
this is because I am a flibbertigibbet and cannot make up my mind
published in The Flea, March 2011
you may notice differences in the final lines
this is because I am a flibbertigibbet and cannot make up my mind
© 2007 - 2024 salshep
Comments24
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perhaps a period at the end of the second stanza. In the garden, kind of hangs out there without much to say. the rest is epic. even though it's been used as a metaphor before, youve got your own voice ringing clearlyhere.