And cords of ruddy sentinels. She minds her own cords. She
wasn’t a gray tortoise. Her pebbles were sack pebbles. The snarls all had strangled courts and big tales
He’s an American archetype, or Archie type.
Full of blustery rants against modernity and
nostalgia for ‘the way Glenn Miller played
ranting a long journey accepted the good-natured insults and
mockery of friends. Most would have it easy, nothing more to
worry about than hurrying some old rebel to a car, or getting
their shirts wrinkled in a heel-dragging, hair-pulling rural
self off on another tributary of the nightmare, to seek out a
scheme as random and hopeless as the one of which he was a
part; and what of the wheels and the possibility of lowering
himself underneath, thrusting himself into some new hell that
would at least guarantee a comfort in its permanence — how
his long tenure, he is remarkable secure,
powerful and agile. And he has no serious
opposition — except the press. Most of the
current complaints – rushed constitutional
reforms, a hasty reshuffle – are unlikely to
stick. But the barrage of criticism
Maybe for once let’s not think.
How’s that for soap opera?
Beautiful, majestic, regal sonority,
the brotherhood of bone.
By having these dead bodies,
the stakes are raised.
You’re spinning your wheels