Monday, April 8, 2019

Beth Gibbons and Rustin Man by John Doyle

Autumn, gunshot-red, starving sun shedding solar fat;
a song is bronze at dusk, firefly moonlight; I coil my serpent-kiss,
erotic must, old sea-chart books,
cool laughing rain under the hissing-trees with lovers.

The witches sink in pale-white oceans,
dervishes that mock vastness of space,
and the flickering blue-dashed lunar
shades, wizened hands, nubile magi called Ash and Hollie







About John Doyle:

John Doyle is at present watching Rocky V and wondering why he could have been at such a loose-end to be reduced to this, I mean, seriously... 
He accepts all major credit cards, but will start dancing a whole lot sooner if you just point a gun at his feet and fire at will.

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