Mr. Bodhair awoke drinking purple fortified mulled wine, spiced with rotting fish, from the mouth of a grotesque gargoyle (disturbingly aware of the redundancy), a recurring dream in which he scaled the crumbling masonry walls of some late medieval gothic cathedral, compelled by an insatiable thirst for water, only to be frustrated by the bizarre flows of undrinkable fluids emitted from the throats of the unspeakable yet annoyingly noisy concreted creatures. He got out of bed, pissed, and started the coffee percolator, smoking a cigarette while he waited, refusing to think about his gargoyles, believing the interpretation of dreams, like poetry, a waste of time, along the lines of horoscopes, prayer, or NASA.
The poetry post was taken down over night spirits the rules of cultural worm tongues relevance ad hoc heresy. Kicked to the ground old fashioned paper pages bestrew the weeds of diction and grammar. Who put up the poetry post unknown nor who kicked the post down still cadence broke at the base cracked where it entered the yard near the sidewalk free for passersby to read not the news and certainly nothing about a poetry post pushed over in the night nor who picked up the pieces and raked clean any evidence Who put up the poetry post unknown nor who punched the post's still cadence broke at the base cracked where it entered the yard near the sidewalk free for passersby to read not the news and anyway nothing about a poetry post pushed away in the night broken where entered the ground empty the post head where displayed a page a day now empty abandoned unfulfilled leaning fallen pushedfall