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Readers are asked to send a note of any misprints or mistakes that they spot in this poem to editor@pnreview.co.uk

This poem is taken from PN Review 196, Volume 37 Number 2, November - December 2010.

from 'Dirty Data' Paul Muldoon

The dog is tense the day Ben Hourihane
falls fuel of the new Roman turbine,
Little Miss Sally hisself, tense enough to set off a chain
of events that will see Ben mine

warehouse after warehouse of schlock
and link him via a slave ship
to a hell for leather chariot race at Antioch.
Sooner or later Messala will need a lot more than a double hip

replacement while Ben will barely chafe
at the bit. That’s right, Messala, an amputation saw.
The doctor is cocking an ear to your chest’s tumble-de-drum

like a man trying to open a safe.
To add to the confusion, Ben’s still trying to crack a lobster claw
with a lobster claw made of titanium.

This poem is taken from PN Review 196, Volume 37 Number 2, November - December 2010.



Readers are asked to send a note of any misprints or mistakes that they spot in this poem to editor@pnreview.co.uk
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