Monday, 9 March 2009

From "Corroded by Symbolysme: An Anti-Review of Twelve British Poets [...]"

By Kent Johnson.

I offered hime my sweater, but he refused, and so I said, Well then, I am going to take my clothes off too, that's only fayre, and Martin shouted at the top of his voice, I dare you, you lovely mother-fucking hulk of a man! And so I did, though just my sweater and shirtum, not all my clothes, and we walked, bare-chested, our arms over each other's shoulders, all the way back, striking an image that no doubt appeared homo-erotic to all the young BSU bar-fly passerby, but which we both, comfortable as peas in a pod with our sexualyties, secretlie knew was surely nothing more than a spontaneous homo-social expressione of manley friendship between two thirty-something post-acantum poets, with genetyk gifts of beutifulie slim waistes.

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