jonathan vanballenberghe

 

No! The realities keep off out rear,

And front ads in the shops

with irrupting,

Posts rubbed up still pickling

in linseed,

The woodsheet hanging suppressing doors

a lie about the sham undermetal,

You and I would adore the undermetal!

 

So smoke runs nostrils back out

from the forklifts, and green chill

of moss

 

scales grease

on pump-taps,

 

And canning the seiner tilts to moving

gillblood

alive in diesel of the second load,

Halibut dynamized the canal of Lynn,

The starfish are hidden in oil,

 

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