#1<\/p>\n
Howdy lately, and prism:
\nwhat ailed and gathered under.
\nWhat was it we went to,
\nhence to the spirit then
\nhence, hence.<\/p>\n
#2<\/p>\n
True come and money rebuke,
\nretributions of grand slaps
\nand hup, got gandered by a burke in the pantry.
\nTrue come be fatally shanked
\nin the shadow of a maximised wealth.<\/p>\n
#3<\/p>\n
Trackie-bottom investigative, fatally bored,
\nnot huff-puff but enough tough stuff.
\nWe can go lately humming a chanter-lily melody,
\nthe bear that hangs in the recess.
\nTaxidermic prophecy.<\/p>\n
#4 <\/p>\n
Over-top, trade-in on an interior.
\nMister murderous, geo-tag \u201cstaz”, and
\nbrandish a counter. Bleat in and bleat in,
\nwho, hence the fatal remedy, hence,
\nwho hence in the next of it.\u201d\u0192<\/p>\n
This functioning view<\/strong><\/p>\n all shape turned to silhouette, the pleasure that exacts. This is the low and long in tune. It takes an excess of beating. The rains came and drained away. No major event was noted. The rains came and drained away. No further action was taken. The rains came and drained away. No reasoning was inferred from it. The rains came. The rains came. Leading to believe. Nothing. The rains came. An erasure. The rains came. The scent of rice burning. The rains came. On consultation it was communicated that statue had no present name for this. The rains came. The objects that float were buoyant. The rains came. Who was that in the new world. The rains came. On some predication, the day when every contingency against it ceases. The rains came. What countermand could have been given.<\/p>\n ABOUT THE AUTHOR<\/strong> Trackie-bottom investigative, fatally bored, By Andrew Spragg.<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":155,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-64925","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/64925","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/155"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=64925"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/64925\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=64925"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=64925"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=64925"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2014\/03\/andyspragg-200x300.jpg\")
<\/p>\n
\nAndrew Spragg<\/strong> is a poet and critic. He was born in London and lives there presently. His books include The Fleetingest<\/em> (Red Ceiling Press, 2011), Notes for Fatty Cakes<\/em> (Anything Anymore Anywhere, 2011), cut out<\/em> (Dept Press, 2012), To Blart & Kid<\/em> (Like This Press, 2013) and A Treatise on Disaster<\/em> (Contraband Books, 2013). His writing was also included in Dear World & Everyone In It: New Poetry in the UK<\/em> (Bloodaxe, 2013). He has also written reviews for The Quietus<\/em> and Bonafide<\/em> magazine.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2014\/03\/andyspragg-420x179.jpg\")
<\/p>\n
\nnot huff-puff but enough tough stuff.
\nWe can go lately humming a chanter-lily melody,
\nthe bear that hangs in the recess.
\nTaxidermic prophecy.<\/p>\n