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Pigs are flying, what the hell is frozen stiff!
All that could not ever be turns out
parades of animate originality
have stomped like grapes the foetid
truths of yesteryear, the worming inch
though footless knows her steppes
vast metrics she has climbed
avoiding all attempts by cloaked
and leering doubters to divide
she only multiplies;

and now that cloven-footeds soar
infernos cool to islands thrust
above the planetary tears of chaos
we will find new uses for the blues
and greens organic free of pests
and sidelong animosities.


© Elaine Stirling, 2013
–image of imps, a 15th century
woodcut, found at multimania.co.uk