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Literature Text
My sleeps are unrested,
and ribs creak
with weariness,
my uterus shrivels -
a pink husk as dry as humour
rolling around
like a tumbleweed somewhere
between my spleen
and spine.
I give you stone infants with alabaster skin,
and eyes like milky marbles;
their brass tongues click with hunger
their clockwork hearts whirr with life
and we sink
from the weight of exhaustion.
and ribs creak
with weariness,
my uterus shrivels -
a pink husk as dry as humour
rolling around
like a tumbleweed somewhere
between my spleen
and spine.
I give you stone infants with alabaster skin,
and eyes like milky marbles;
their brass tongues click with hunger
their clockwork hearts whirr with life
and we sink
from the weight of exhaustion.
Literature
Gulf
Shoulder to shoulder,
In a rough surf, they ride
A yellow raft,
My Mother and Father.
At the first drops
Of the storm, their faces
Side by side,
They're slow to move.
Legs trailing, now
Propelled, now withdrawn,
They re-appear
Each time farther out.
The rhythm of the sea--
I complain it's pulling me
Down--the rhythm
Is my parents' own.
Hugging the raft,
They wear the distant smile
Of those quietly
Listening at a shell.
Literature
in the box
is a brain, removed from shell
disconnected
from signal wires. still viable (?)
maybe.
blue teeth and instant grams
and gallons of conceit;
our granular portrait no longer flatters
unless dull spots and imperfections are rendered
out in the wash--
we mask and filter, ask and answer,
bask in banter
understanding no one ever even thinks
to change the thought they've already had.
old news, rotten
if revisited. inquisitive
minds have nothing better to do
but second guess assumptions,
better than first-blush conundrums
that don't fit the formula we've written
for how the world works;
it's absurd to think
this is where our
Literature
making meat
it is such a hallowed place
where my hunger is all the time
mixed-up in spirits
& soil
from which grass comes
so grand & green
to rise around
this rotting oak temple
Jerusalem beetles
will do everything
they ever do
inside of it
& on top of it
i will say a prayer
each time my arm comes down
may the universe take you home
it is the merging of iron and oxygen
which gives the weapon its age
&
which spatters my brow
dear bird
the hatchet remains
slightly sunken
in the temple roof
& stands there
all strange memories
& soft flesh
as the talon of an owl
yet it is my talon, see
&
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Comments5
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And so the circle turns. You have a flair for captivation that does not seem to wear out such used gears.