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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 29-May 18:16:55 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 146969
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Minstrel
[time] => 2008-12-21 21:19:48
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => The minstrel plays his surly tune, Eye-yoke like egg yolk. Yes, he looks wan, Sallow everywhere, sans his thick Head hair. It lacks that luster, Not blonde but black, Grey hair surfacing here and there. It will always lack That luster. Characteristic of the sick. So spectators chip in A fiery copper coin, Donors of the shine Not within. Hollowness—congenital havoc. And they even upgrade To silver, gold. His flaccid Arms catch the coins, juggle the dividend, Cute, wobbly, akimbo. Akimbo. When the arms Planted at the waist Still possess Fast Fingers. Those fingers play accordion. Two are missing, But they would say he has eighteen. He is missing the ring, Which can loosen or quicken The juggling technique. But mastering the purposive uni-wheel Was harder to overlook. He usually fell; It did not matter. He had spent much of childhood In hospitals. It struck him That abut agencies deliberately rubbed His sternum Against the grain. Dumped from a wheelchair And immediately scooped up. Some traduced what remaining power, Others cursed the phantom harp- Optimal digits Absent from his hands. He might be a harlequin; might, They herald, have hordes Find him mendicant All in the same. [comments] => 0 [counter] => 145 [topic] => 32 [informant] => screwge [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => SadPoetry )
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