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A Man Called Beatrice


ISSUE:  Winter 1999

All the King’s horses and all the King’s men
Can’t put you back together again
Nor silver salvers save you, sorry
That which will kill you beats
Within your blood with
Sound of flapping wings
Your sculpted angel, sugar-white and giant
Sits crated in the field
Offering up tenderness in a roomy scallop shell
Kneeling in her robes your thoughts of death
Are just chest height, little folds of cloth
Where breasts might be
She kneels, she proffers up her shell
Angels have no sex you say of her flat chest
But ah I say for you they’ve nothing but

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