Writing Ideas Organiser Software
Technology12 mins ago
Mainly for Dottie !
9 Answers
'They dug her out. Now they batten
On the cornucopia
Of her body. Even
Bite the face off her gravestone,
Gulp down the grave ornaments,
Swallow the very soil.
So leave her.'
On the cornucopia
Of her body. Even
Bite the face off her gravestone,
Gulp down the grave ornaments,
Swallow the very soil.
So leave her.'
Answers
1 to 9 of 9
Best Answer
No best answer has yet been selected by thenry. Once a best answer has been selected, it will be shown here.
For more on marking an answer as the "Best Answer", please visit our FAQ.
As Chris says...
That is not your mother but her body. She leapt from our window And fell there. Those are not dogs That seem to be dogs Pulling at her. Remember the lean hound Running up the lane holding high The dangling raw windpipe and lungs Of a fox? Now see who Will drop on all fours at the end of the street And come romping towards your mother, Pulling her remains, with their lips Lifted like dog's lips Into new positions. Protect her And they will tear you down As if you were more her. They will find you every bit As succulent as she is. Too late To salvage what she was. I buried her where she fell. You played around the grave. We arranged Sea-shells and big veined pebbles Carried from Appledore As if we were herself. But a kind Of hyena came aching upwind. They dug her out. Now they batten On the cornucopia Of her body. Even Bite the face off her gravestone, Gulp down the grave ornaments, Swallow the very soil. So leave her. Let her be their spoils. Go wrap Your head in the snowy rivers Of Brooks Range. Cover Your eyes with the writing airs Off the Nullarbor Plains. Let them Jerk their tail-stumps, bristle and vomit Over their symposia. Think her better Spread with holy care on a high grid For vultures To take back into the sun. Imagine These bone-crushing mouths the mouths That labour for the beetle Who will roll her back into the sun.
That is not your mother but her body. She leapt from our window And fell there. Those are not dogs That seem to be dogs Pulling at her. Remember the lean hound Running up the lane holding high The dangling raw windpipe and lungs Of a fox? Now see who Will drop on all fours at the end of the street And come romping towards your mother, Pulling her remains, with their lips Lifted like dog's lips Into new positions. Protect her And they will tear you down As if you were more her. They will find you every bit As succulent as she is. Too late To salvage what she was. I buried her where she fell. You played around the grave. We arranged Sea-shells and big veined pebbles Carried from Appledore As if we were herself. But a kind Of hyena came aching upwind. They dug her out. Now they batten On the cornucopia Of her body. Even Bite the face off her gravestone, Gulp down the grave ornaments, Swallow the very soil. So leave her. Let her be their spoils. Go wrap Your head in the snowy rivers Of Brooks Range. Cover Your eyes with the writing airs Off the Nullarbor Plains. Let them Jerk their tail-stumps, bristle and vomit Over their symposia. Think her better Spread with holy care on a high grid For vultures To take back into the sun. Imagine These bone-crushing mouths the mouths That labour for the beetle Who will roll her back into the sun.
1 to 9 of 9
Latest Posts
Body & Soul19 mins ago
Star Wars Quix...f A O Mozz....
Film, Media & TV61 mins ago
ChatterBank91 mins ago
Quizzes & Puzzles100 mins ago
Music101 mins ago
Related Questions
Sorry, we can't find any related questions. Try using the search bar at the top of the page to search for some keywords, or choose a topic and submit your own question.