Anthony Weir

Rookie (13th September 1941)

Here, Now In The Junkyard Of Reality - Poem by Anthony Weir

The smell of death
is a lover's smell:
unchaste, alone,
I'm perfumed by
magnificent disgraces.

When day is strange dream
Divided by night
It’s time to extinguish the light
And dance in the odorous places.

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Poem Submitted: Saturday, May 6, 2006



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