As I wrestle with your feathers
I am cold lonely anticipating all kinds of weathers.
God, give me wings to lift me out of here to a place with infinite beer
That sediment which you give a prof
Can be mine to rof.
whenever I like.
I would like to be literate and well read
so I could answer properly your questions and imicipations
which I gather are as popular as ever. Well done you imicipator.
which pre-dates the calculator by hundreds of decades.
I love you Emily as you cauterise my melancholy like cotton wool and gunpowder in a smelling discharge paper. I have finally come undone like one of your buttons. Dear Emily. I will be hated for mine comments berated like so many old soldiers coming home after war to nothing but approbation for killing. Nothing of good service! All empty cups and harsh cornices empty above a cold stove. Hows that for the road on which your travelled to meet god knows who . God I wish we were alone. We could fly in tethers made from telling each other of Spode and architecture Newbold and Pitt The Younger.. Your words are my hope. You give ’em enough rope to pull themselves along rather than hang themselves as is the fashion nowadays.This is truly a melange. A wedding. A shallow bowl containing whisky. We are soaked in Sponges and squeegees polished and finished at no school like the world has ever known. Every flag sewn and flied is a brass eye through which I can see never ending beauty as the horses neigh in approval. This is it our one life and I am living it via a computer. Cybernetics would have interested you soaring above its letters and words like a soaring bird.You would have been a cybernetic wonder. I would have scoffed at your detractors made them plough for a severance a stony field like littered with unexploded hand grenades. In a little village not often seen is a little lane called memory. Do you recall one gliding down it on a farthing cycle feet pushed out wide smiling and laughing? Well, that’s how your words make me feel. Like I have revisited one of your memories. and we never met. Of you, i would dwell on well-kept matters of fact secretly betrothed at a brothel or a hovel. You would have brought it alive.Never meet your heroes. Only beyond the grave. Did the King take you as some believe or was it only make believe of shitstorms and misunderstanding that in your life your were plagued? Nobody is surer of the truth than I whose distilling was crafted from art, born from fire and practised day after day after day. You are the finest wine I drink while music plays and metaphor, the children’s bore is left to fester in a damp room. Play your gloom over me like a shadow and bring me to life. A million surfaces are not exeunt. To be possible is to be improbable like Scotch Mist. You knew this. Over iron works, over smoking shell holes are ridges of selfless trees their leaves rustling in harmony to the gait of the four legged labor burden that is you on heroin. I am not kin to gladness nor sorrow nor loss but to hope lost and found in words on a page. Your words my craziness. Peace.

The need to write drowned out matters of editing past my own and throwing stones in glasshouses. Enjoy
To Emily Dickinson,

Published by Andrew Mark Watkins

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