FLOTILLAS AT DALKEY BAY
Copper mews flat
thats where you reside
a lad licking whiskey
from a golden goblet of enemies.
Cranberry cheek, you say
"Face me and you may enter."
Taste my mouth young man!
Or do you propose
to bootleg it to the troubling sea?
I shall follow your telephone
mash up your corner tavern
out of jealousy
girdle round your earth
You see,
revolution is just a luxury.
Your lingo is all about it
a poor translation
of absence and wandering emancipation.
Let us flood together
in Egyptian cotton where
the land is defined
by the sandy road.
Binge on my hot sangre, Settler
Give me the works not the words.
Mount that flotilla.
Annotations and comments
Highlight textI can't seem to reply to your post below, so I'm editing this one: To answer your question, I studied and love poetry but I'm not much of a poet by my estimation. Marcus and I are currently embroiled in an interesting and ongoing debate....