Eoin's got addicted to sugar free methadone
and writing 10 line poems.
His hair is doss-tramp unwashed straight
hung down rat-tail like from a balding crown
whisping to the tip of his shirt collar.
He has a blood-pressure tan
and L shaped facial hair
when seen in profile.
He grips the lectern and delivers like a nodding derrick
the zig zag flickering verse
golden...with multitudinous...things
such as the
dust of obliteration glowing in a haze of cats and...dishes
and nothing can stop him
as the imagined hands of Donne and Shelley
hover by his soul
falling swift to snatch its core
and wring out the poems
stretching fibres of his art until an entirely different entity
is exposed in a church-sermon tone's drone-like delivery.
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