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poetry

wings of brass

What will we do with these years remaining, love? Now that all the gods are slain by our introspection, now that sunsets' once playful pink-cotton foretells only night’s panicked, chirping-insect void, what shall we do with the stilled-scream horror of ourselves, as it sits lonesome and warted, hunched and spiny, ...
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poetry

Atop the Shimmer

Most of what I am to you now, to anyone, is the drunken musk of memory; I am aware, and was-- before the sun considered rising over our wishfulness. Choose your poem, choose your sunshine-afternoon and pin its photo to the wall, and try, love, try-- not to look too ...
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poetry

Solemnity

I slept, or endeavored as poems danced their drunken dances white-tooth gaiety a rustling cacophony aye, each seducing the next or whichever-- might seem amicable I slept, or endeavored as the raucous powder-hair affair roared and chortled spinning too drunk to care but not drunk enough to forget solemnity-- tho ...
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poetry

golden-afternoon memory

Even as you are gone from what we were, only the shadowy-well ache remaining, this howling void stays-- the most potent reminder-- these words, all that I am, wish only to fill the emptiness; these words wish-- if only once, if only for the rustling leaf-turn of a golden-afternoon memory, ...
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blog

Dreaming of Hope

I suppose that when we go, we all go still owing a debt somewhere, a loan unpaid, a good turn still un-returned, a forgiveness not granted, a wrong never made right. And some would say that we get what we’ve got coming, but we never do. We get what we get ...
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story

Strawberry Dreams

The soil, moist and soft, recalled safe memories; its cool touch embraced my underside as I lay, drifting. It is in these times that we are free-- loose the chains of gods and governments, loose the hold of hunger and strife; it is in the surrealism, the weightless space-drift of ...
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poetry

No lies remained

Autumn-evening’s sunshine, painting her skin in hues of young-hope’s memories, couldn’t change what she’d become. Greasy locks of grayed yellow fell over a round, scar-pocked face. Anger seethed, both hot and cold, as our eyes met, though she looked away. It wasn’t the type of anger that passes quickly. If ...
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poetry

thrust into the rainbow’s fable

we didn't agree to this we were merely born here thrust into the rainbow's fable pushed from the red-fibrous wombs where we'd slumbered spat out, squint-eyed and screaming into the spinning-steel machinery white wolves watch the grumbling churn from the swaying-grass periphery tasting the smell of our mortality the blood ...
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