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Poem — Tim Upperton

The Bare Hook Don’t ask what this is all about. At the end of the row, you start over. The way in is the way out. From Toulouse, France, you wrote what you say to hush each new lover: Don’t

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The centre cannot hold, Tim Upperton

Poet Tim Upperton argues against order as a crucial element in successful poetry. Imagine some chickens in a yard. Each morning their owner appears, banging the side of a tin bucket full of grain, and the chickens crowd around to

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Poem — Tim Upperton

Sonnet   Fuck your simile. Fuck your elegy for. Fuck your homily, your extended metaphor. Fuck your metonymy. Fuck your exquisite language economy. Fuck your metre, your keeping time. Fuck your vers libre. Fuck your rhyme. Fuck your Elizabethan men

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Poem — Tim Upperton

That way only That right. That OK? That’ll do. That’s that then. I’ll leave that to you. That’s not what I said. That’s enough. No, not that. That’s the stuff. That your suitcase, sir? That what you think? Fancy that.

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Poem — Tim Upperton

At the cemetery the gravestones are hilarious  You have two dogs that are hounds from hell. They scuffle and slobber. I don’t do dogs very well. Your lower lip is full, your upper lip is thin. I simply am not

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Poem — Tim Upperton

History   Turn the pages, slowly. Each word afloat  on narrative’s sea, each glyph the principal  character in its own story, each clinging on  for dear life. A is aleph, an ox. Upside down,  its blank, horned face blazes through

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