Poetry

Ivan Head: Fest

Fest I cannot miss the dead Possum by the hedgerow. Its sharp acridity has a 50 metre range in still air, and forensics warm RSVP to every fly, beetle, maggot and nano-phage has been accepted, compelled to feast on all the Christmases of this Magic Pudding.   Sydney rats, after their bait-fest retreat under the study to stink-out the library keep-shelves with their own perennial wisdom. After that plague, a late harvest of phagocytic flies find their way up through the fuse-box to turn the house into a Hitchcock set, flying and crawling by fifties and hundreds before dying like…

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