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Comments about Ian Sinclair
All I Want Is My Pen, Nights Mare
When night’s mare tassels its veined muzzle glancing toward virgin ventures and the sour posture of Novembers yawn. Scoffing checked dirt the mare’s explicit sob is lingering, a waving in between thoughts grasped by the wild cantor of laced bur in to the break of warmth and shaking hands. The contemptuous melody of silences glair, scaring each sentence with its own mark of Christ’s hair, For give me mare stumbling all my muttered tears; all I want is my pen. bleeding sarcasm on fettered languid tongue coffee conversation’s saint sinking away into the beauty of life’s tare eyes. I once ...Read the full of All I Want Is My Pen, Nights Mare