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Drew Milne

 

Three Poems from 'Lichens for Marxists"

Crypsis Papers

industrial melanism eats in dark font
the stain and copper bottom dot irony

page based as to pale recessive moths
all mirror gone stalls to little cars

for one they like to spell gene death
care of the cropped man from Monsanto

toy punk in the locks of a cocked hat
depositing eggs on a cryptic bracelet

in what can only be called extinction
by a thousand shifts of dazzled heart

coming round to predation of all form
all incline frequencies faking salads

the lichen’s mite does widow in looms
such cash & carry bliss for the foyer

and an unbreakable convention of care
in the write up of the glossy scruple

 

Adjectival Masquerade

braille to a natural history
what with even missile nouns
struck by the exemplar lance
by lawn trifling
unnatural scores
like quirk teams
the sharp of brute colouring
ramifying its so timid spade
all set to lie tufted sponge
bought makeshift
as sparkle grit
and pearly smile
once make do got along scaly
even in frankly opake matter          
in the din that so squanders
the wonder paths
in the clearings
now forest tooth
that is the lit wallow turfy
some said notched this mealy
adjective into all making do
as to low theory
here's symbolism
made spiller toe
down to firing or granulated
in the brushed call of memes
come stall but creeping fire
for a revolution
with no mistakes
as suits the end
who would true fertile force
find each zigzag locker song
quite friable in the musters
not like in last
times for laughs
to spineless veg
to symbiosis spilling spores
parks that are less sinuated
to the grumble of its braid

 

The Lost Moons of Endymion the Third

it begins painting night larks
a rustic dross in repeat sleep
towelling vegetarian pantheism
to be shaded nebula and slicks
on drums how the idol of moons
is off once more in undertones

the loop shepherds of bouncing
are all in thickets of leaving
the left paramours lichens too
o the wings and gun metal stew
coming to with winter ferocity
a dark so dramatised by beauty

parlance he did not beg a moon
become the watery option pools
that over scathing photocopies
saw a mechanical prefect knife
in to something and such peels
all grips to style with blanks

things they are no matter zone
to florid bunks done low drove
in malled algorithms and gloom
dusting the aggro of the spine
but too bad for green tills or
simple threats to a sure grout

 

 

Copyright © Drew Milne, 2017.