All Talk
His whine
interrupts and won’t stop
Even when
politely ignored
Before his
sunken eyes, you have no choice
You must
listen, or fight
Exploding
in his mind are a billion worlds
Strangled
into twenty-eight lines
Tall tales
of the decapitated mail-order Finnish wife
Stacked up
in sections inside a wind-swept silo
Bulgarian
and rusty
INTERPOL
Worked
there too, sure, yes, something for the Army
Through
the government, by way of the powers that be
He’s
Satan’s Facebook friend
An all-round good man
This is
safe C.I.A. stuff
An actor
playing the character of a character
Silent for
too long, he had to speak
Indulge him
But then
he bends low and whispers in your ear
Young
girls gnawing flint axes, by his silver sea
Beneath a
stump of the Banyan Tree
Your flesh
creeps, but you’re nailed to the chair
In the
woods, you two apart, he’d skin you alive
Wear your
hide for a vest; make your scalp a rag
The Tribe
would kill him, afraid of his fear
But The
Country understands
Part of that bargain
It remains all talk
Primitivo
Flecks of
mineral, white in red dregs
Hard water
and dirt in them dregs
But the lees sounds so mucher the betterer,
the best dregs
All hints
of chocolate and rounded fruits
And, and
Dionysius’s fashionable mask
Goldenly
E.U. stars on blue smudge
Reassurance of highest quality
National
Geographicca typico, besto in all the bloody mess
Vine bile,
or grape tar, or agro syrup,
Or
portable, potable, pissable heartburn
Unfastens
the thinking and lays a body low
Two scoops
of, no, Medicine to forget
Yeah, yeah,
Medicine to forget
Read, in a
mag, root o’ culture, bulwark of civilization
Like
getting down on all fours to sip the waters of that, that
Mystical
river, the one, you know
Which?
Medicine
to forget
How it
works, forget
But always
remember who makes the stuff
Where and
why for, and what they charging?
That’s a good Primitive
Title Pending
Copy write
libel
Copy white
lies
Copyright
copy
Copier
joyrides
Pimpled
arse cheeks pressed
On bare
glass plate, funny
Copy test
papers
Copy
collations
Copy and
submit
Copier of
copies
An original
wears through dog-eared to dust
But never
dies, context changing
So, what do we call it?
Joseph Robert was born and raised in the
Midwest. However, he has always been partial to Hawaiian beaches. Nevertheless:
Go Badgers! After living and working for several years in rural Japan, he now
resides in London with his wife, writer and poet Leilanie Stewart. In his spare
time, you can find him at the British Museum trying to teach himself how to read
Sumerian cuneiform. Don't worry, yes, he has seen Evil Dead, so doesn't read any
of it out loud.
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