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margarets dead is a dead poem

hello, so here we are now

huddled for this tented voyage

never ready for blunt-faced

rock star poets to speak

like main street pastry

sweet calorific word-units rained brutal

all yr fat thick metaphoric

les murray-style stanzas

spoken lines and maybe munted rhymes

here in this sacred semiotic space

 

hills n hills of rows of fine vines clarified

harrowed like hashtagged hashtags

a margaret river narrative

not even a weed in sight

 

and poetry is dead again, woke

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