Gilbert and Sullivan smoked crack, prepuce-excreta-ligulas scorched clear through to eyeteeth and jawbone; silly fucking librettos, enough to send you screaming, ears burning, to the nearest exit, crack-ash stuck in the folds of your trousers, tie knotted in a sheepshank-bolo; the prelates of penance, or the nickelodeon, all that cacophony and tympana, flutes, oboes and French horns, not a penny-whistle or a pocket-comb and wax paper in the lot.
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About Me
- Stephen Rowntree
- "Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz
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