Gordon Wardman
death zone
the dead are immovable landmarks,
a wind-flayed cadaver trail up Everest;
funny how we call empties dead men,
rolling them over the carpet towards morning,
knowing the offie opens at nine
and all will be more or less well -
hell, if they cracked the bottle banks now
we'd drown in the clinking avalanche
these are the lowlands of lager,
nobody climbs mountains round here,
but we all talk beautiful corpses
because talk is duty-free
and we're all high on exposure
and ready to run the scree
Page(s) 71
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