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..:: CONTENTS ::..
   Volume VIII, Issue II

..:: POETRY ::..


..:: PROSE ::..

..:: ETC ::..
   Contributor's Notes

..:: ARCHIVES ::..
   Volume I, Issue I
   Volume I, Issue II
   Volume II, Issue I
   Volume II, Issue II
   Volume III, Issue I
   Volume III, Issue II
   Volume IV, Issue I
   Volume IV, Issue II
   Volume V, Issue I
   Volume V, Issue II
   Volume VI, Issue I
   Volume VI, Issue II
   Volume VII, Issue I
   Volume VII, Issue II
   Volume VIII, Issue I

 
Poetry


After Tertullian
Mark Young

 

The courts of justice are infested. The defence of the sect has been upheld. Now it is truly lawful for silent letters to set up shop in your ears. You can say yes to kerchief auctions, to diligent studies of solar flares. The immediate will happen, finally. It does not licence you to be a gypsy. Nor to be published in open access journals. To lead the empire. To play in the first tier of the UEFA soccer league. Or carry iron. Or be the presiding judge of a city. To read palms. To be concerned & drink liquor. To wear your watch in public & convey the time to inquiring Arabs. Or should that be in inchoate arabesques?

 

 

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