SHANDYTOWN
Oh boy, that unsettled grin where the
settler's been - shanty town o'er by
the sea. You know - like the difference
between poetry and prose : this place :
prose is a house; and poetry is a man
in flames, running through it...you've heard
that one I'm sure. You've seen the hours
stacked ahead of you, bales of time just
shining in the sun. And my how this place
juts the sea, standing guard over you-to-me,
that never-sated water-monster royal. The
crazy one. Shandydown they called it - those
stupid irish guinea wop duets all over the place;
like fornicating thrush just making a slum with
all its poverty gliding upward, with all its fair
poetic poverty gliding up like some prose and
a man's house afire. Though I have nothing
new now to countenance, nothing new at
all - in this shanty town shack where
they bring it all back.
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