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18 March 2010




Primitive Pianos

I dream this city
this city this city
of primitive
pianos
icy millions tell me so
tell me tell me oh
pulled tooth
pulled tooth
that left a hole a hole
my my my
uncooked trial
a jig with Roman wrestlers
a jig with Irish diplomats
my Irish pores are breaking
into the cold green waters
the cold muddy froth
father father I hear
the turnips preparing
in their ground
by the pale muddy
waters waters
we sink like any
old stone

Comments

Simon Howard said…
I love the title, Marcus (& the poem, too!).

Simon
postpran said…
thanks so much Simon :-) :-)
Kirsten said…
A wonderful piece
postpran said…
thank you Kirsten :-) Your blog is making me hungry!!!

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