Here lies Martes Flavigula, eternally beneath the splintered earth.

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Poems -

I want to break your
Skull over a stone in
Madrid at the
Café where I sat among
Milling, insectile spaniards or
Bumbling, porcine tourists sipping
Surreptitiously from a
Bottle of vodka tucked in
My backpack as sticky summer
Sunbeams played havoc with the
Accursed curve of time.

Along with martens, goulish goats and the rippling fen -
these writings 1993-2023 by Bob Murry Shelton are licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

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