It is the morning of the time of all catapult specials, where all dawns meet and treat the soil with disdain. How many circumference navigators have silver lined their marathon pockets with collosal extraveganzers and hiccuping gladiators, riptided and glacier swollen, a pendulum in one hand, an hourglass in the other, hopelessly entwined, wrapped around, ivy-Iike, hidden in shoes and crysalists, smoothing out their talkers worldless tongues?
Published by Tony Chapman
poet, songwriter, performer, visual artist. View all posts by Tony Chapman