Sharks?
such larks!
what great stink
among the beaks,
scouts and water-sneaks!
don’t crack a whid but york
that stretch of dogs across the Neck
barred tooth and claw. Mates, let’s toddle
oil lamps fake bright glim on crushed cockles
Doff
your togs,
gay old dogs!
kickseys, flesh-bags,
crab-shells. Hold the swag
‘bove water on noggins
skinned to the nines! Done in twig
let’s tip ‘em the Dublin
fake away the bolt - in - tun racket
The
water
is bitter
but Oliver
is down. Ain’t never
seen more ghostly bolters
than us three. Give a shifter
if the buffers snarl, the lobsters
blow the gaff and grab their barking-irons
Pins
frozen
fams bitten,
breakers swelling
Cleaned out of togs! Damn!
A dread darky. Pain in
the nancy
like cadging-gloaks. ‘Pon the rush, gang,
round the chain of jugelows ironed
Tall
windmills
top o’ hills
clicking signals
real dead quick. Here, crawl,
muff shut, ‘pon the bustle
tween sand hills to wild tangle
lie low beyond the grunters - box
knocked up. No grub, togs. But done the trick
Michael Small January 14-15, 2004
No comments:
Post a Comment