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Dooley's TreasureSimple Gint tore up the last of the floorboards, his short forehead buckling into a frown so deep that his hairline almost met his eyebrows.He raised his voice, in order to be heard over the wild storm-wind and the din of what must be a couple of thousand wind-chimes hanging outside on the decrepit shack's porch, some made of old brass forks and bits of tin, others of bone or seashells, and most painted with the symbol of the Eye, a supposed ward against black magic."Ain't no treasure here, Padrick. An' this place gives me th' creeps. Feels witched, it does."O'Malley was the second man hired to help find the rumoured loot. "I say we wait the feckin' storm out, an' get th' back te th' pub. Waste o' feckin time..." He was almost spherical and had the face of an over-fed cherub, but O'Malley was also no easy prey; not a few men had fought with him and died for their trouble.A third man sat amid the rubble on an upturned crate. Known to the others only as Padrick, he spoke in a lo
The Hard Work of PoetryPoets are constantly crippled, creatively. It's the way it works. You write a line and, just now, right now, it seems like it's the best line in the world to date. It's a shiny, beautiful line, a thought, an image so remarkably profound that you are in awe of yourself, or (if you are a seasoned poet) in awe of that angelic being which sits on high in your mind and occasionally drops little scraps of poetic manna into your head. Now, you only need to write a poem around it.And fail.Because the poem takes over, sprouts a million legs and scurries in directions you had no real intention of it going and now the Wondrous Line of Glory and Poetic Win doesn't fit. You have to either change it or take it out and save it for another poem. Or make it a haiku-like short poem on its own, so all those other words don't assault it again. If you're an experienced poet, you'll probably just store it in a .txt file or on a post-it note somewhere and lament it until you're old and nothing matte
The Promisein the garden she was too much work blackberry & poison oakuncultivated tangle - tangelo sour no easy apple shesat high on the bough - caterpillar chic the birds lick her sweatblack snake her heart - we understand she was very bad idea(I: the promise)I've wrapped his word in red flannel,taken to stringing itaround my neck. To those who ask,I explain: Oh, some old juju.Now and forever, am I the keeperof its unbearable weight, thisgreat, dead pendulumwhich drags my head so low I believea tongue must put down roots -wild rhizomes, prowling blindworm-paths, garden and grave,supping on compost, sepulchral saltlicked from the ivory of dead lovers -and my fierce, green hungerdriving me up from pavement cracks- branch, leaf, flower, fruitwhat a poison tree I'd make.--appl