By: Dane Cobain
It’s just line after line in some great
drawing multi-dimensional phosphorescence or
Alex Connor sculpting crazy visions he saw in drunken haze,
Alex Connor drinking barrel hatching crazy plans and schemes;
Alex Connor, half dead in hospital beds and
one more cigarette’ll kill ya.
Rabid poetry is the bearded poet
half-forgotten in some other universe
still living without the internet,
or music made by friends who stack shelves,
Tom Larvin so full of life and one real kick in the gulet,
it makes me feel so old.
Rabid poetry is burning every line you write
and making sense of the ashes –
this is the manifesto.
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