The Monday Poem: What Violins Sing in Their Bed of Lard
What Violins Sing in Their Bed of Lard by Hans Arp the elephant is in love with the millimeter the snail dreams of the moon’s defeat his shoes are pale and purged like the gelatine rifle of a neo-soldier the eagle owns the motions of a mind’s-eye void his piss is speckled with gleams … Continue reading The Monday Poem: What Violins Sing in Their Bed of Lard
