Saturday, March 9, 2013

rob mclennan

Liner notes: empty, for an era

Fabled. You are wheeling, out. A record of arrangement:
strings, the bass drum, horns. I thought we had it all, until
we found it. Basements, filled with stone. Such orange light
glows singular. A chorus: laundry wheeze, an opening night,
unfolded. Outraged, the slaughtered, downs. Foreign smoke
comes trickling in, with spring. We blame the neighbours.


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