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Saturday 17 May 2014

Grant Tarbard


the path of death lies
cloudy as a winters dawn
fog bank glaucoma 

the ash of the king
tied to the hitching post urn
ghosts in the footsteps

the king's sash is used 
for the colouring of ink
and pharmacists pills


fruitless dawn-to-dark

sifting the flour of 
the dead is to sieve 
crisp snow flakes through a
Hula-Hoop, ending 
up with an ashen 

sky and snow covered
shoes. The dead are small,
the dead are changelings 
making graves out of
birds nests, paper and 

those pillow thoughts which 
so encumber you
unravelling to
dust in the shadow 
of slit throat sunlight 


catch a reaper by the toe

half-slave and half-free
to my minds whims and fancies
in Pandora's box 

crawling in the dirt 
I skewer Death's fleeing foot,
catch Grim by the toe

bowed I dive amongst 
the bustle and bind of the 
swift bursting bubble

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