‘Virtue’s March’

by Tom Saer

Any grip I had as a child
On the warrior’s earpiece
Amassed a certain sympathy with Freudian audio and the plaintive
Cry of a caterpillar

The other cups
Made out of moral tortoise shells
Say nothing about the grief of the immortals
Or the baby dragon in her eye
Or the formula for a silent engine

Shaking empathetically
And being otherwise generally thespian
She kissed his wish for composure
And reached a momentary blood flow
Too explicit to stay alive

A depth charge in father’s frontal lobe buried the boat
Sewn with Tartarus needles

It took great offence in a realistic sense
At the case for Satan and his comparability
And that the son of Priam was rescued from his innocence
By the only transplant left

A very tall man is waiting outside with a python of pages
Coiled and waiting to be eaten
Crowned in perfume and vitamin C
I think he’s expostulating about
Three uncertain suns and three eccentric sons
And the legendary sinner who forgot how he survived

Saturn’s sixty-two automobiles
Take my palms to new places
And show me the only measure of justice I need
One little parietal flourish

Our Zodiac blanket and
Feathers under wood steam and
White wine in the underworld
I have lived them all before

 

The Poor Print

The Poor Print is Oriel College's student newspaper, with contributions from across the JCR, MCR, SCR, and staff. Our current Executive Editors are Siddiq Islam and Jerric Chong.

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