MOGADISHU

I raise gamma, does that tickle you?
My Greek eyes (there are all varieties, usually
broken into categories without countries: Arab, Persian.
But also, Indian (which one?) My theta, my schwa and
my schwag. There is hyperthetical stuff. OMG, Epsilon is a horse’s arse.
A B,C,D,E-Grade star, some of which rock, others less so.
Ypres (that’s French for eek), I wipe my underside (arch. poet.)
Next year, thankfully, all books will be either written or reviewed
by Seamus Heaney. We are bordering a newandold time, darl,
this is for evermore and afterwards, we’ll see what happens.
This is the Darfur; which gives the why, but what about the home,
what lieth deep in the hearth? All the while, gangs of young (ganglings)
are roaming the streets without rhyme or reason, which is a heinous shame,
it seems to me. They recounter theirs and thine, like sissy Germans. Streetwise,
I’m in my civvies right now but this is not Darfur (I know, I know).
Maybe you have been dealt a dud hand, but for the moment I am
on the side of an alphabet. This is used tissue. Lying on the boards
I slowly wore through the softwood floors. Realimpolitik.

This entry was posted in alphabet, french, language(s), naming, oz politics, poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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