her. A long and seafed silent rut. She dances, capers, wagging her sowish haunches and her hips, on her gross belly flapping a ruby egg.
Old Russell with a smeared shammy rag burnished again his gem, turned it and held it at the point of his Moses’ beard.
Grandfather ape gloating on a stolen hoard.
And you who wrest old images from the burial earth!
The brainsick words of sophists: Antisthenes.
A lore of drugs.
Orient and immortal wheat standing from everlasting to everlasting.
Two old women fresh from their whiff of the briny trudged through Irishtown along London bridge road, one with a sanded umbrella, one with a midwife’s bag in