Fabula by Patricia Walsh


The twisted story stands on its holy ground,
in lieu of which a paranormal exposition,
flowers delivered with a coin in the slot
speedily recovering the lost inferno.

Fearfully ignorant of disasters rescinding,
louder the better, a baptism of sound,
travels facing the wrong way, walking sore
unwanted addresses magic their announcements.

Should be of another form. Exhausted cars
carry readily home, promising the whole weekend
lines written, now scanned, blowing the cranium
bought and sold through a spurious time.

Send to oneself, enough rope to hang oneself,
perplexingly ordering coffee over a timely air,
wiping the floor clean with you, dismissed for service,
Walking home from the slavish cash declaring.

The night story kisses the arm of the toy superior,
garnering recriminations not to worry anymore,
holding peasants to task for diluted fiction,
not easily influenced, burning in another skin.

Leaving recriminations well alone, be that as it may,
Inebriated grandiose facts escape duty,
always feeling the story, a tenuous occupation,
excluded from stasis, a feeling still civilised.


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