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Old 07-20-2013, 02:11 AM View Post #71 (Link)
Sachal (Offline)
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(this is here again)

a book i read's defined you pristinely:
"in my mind she is like a silent accordion
always folding and unfolding"
and in your mind i am like a broken accordion-
not folding, unfolding, maybe always folding
forcing out sounds about you

in my mind your mind's like your father
always talking about you in the third person
always talking about you like you're made of words
always talking about you like he's the third poet
to put pieces of you together and wait
until other poets break you back down
(and in front of me, a few days later, you reassemble)
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if we were made of cellophane we'd all get stinking drunk much faster
  
						Last edited by Sachal; 08-09-2013 at 07:14 PM.
					
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Old 07-31-2013, 01:49 AM View Post #72 (Link)
Jack (Offline)
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do you see the stars that i see way down south
orion’s glare that sparkling spider amputated at the hilt
i’ve tongued a comfort older than god,
a lie as quick and clean as man’s “just good friends"
and i’ll die crustacean-covered arms open
like christ of the abyss
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poetry
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Old 08-12-2013, 02:36 AM View Post #73 (Link)
Sachal (Offline)
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god i suck


i imagine there is a horde of suitors at your feet
scrabbling dirty blind
and brown like the Thames,
quicksand murderers like the Thames;

i could be floating along the thames like litter
(and among the other trashcan backstrokes
you would watch me drift by
wonder if all the paper bags strangling
the surface could also strangle me.)
i wonder would you care.
the sun can set behind a weeping big ben
and bobbing beside the london eye
i could ludicrously die.
i wonder would you care.
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Old 08-12-2013, 04:04 AM View Post #74 (Link)
Sachal (Offline)
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your father's ferrying you across the thames; poetry in his head, tour guides on the loudspeaker. he's not the first to want you to sink in, all raw mud and waste and spit, just to see if he can write it down.
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if we were made of cellophane we'd all get stinking drunk much faster
  
						Last edited by Sachal; 08-13-2013 at 12:01 PM.
					
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Old 08-12-2013, 10:38 AM View Post #75 (Link)
Wig (Offline)
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shes standing so close to the river
i push her and she falls
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you can't beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
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Old 08-18-2013, 09:59 PM View Post #76 (Link)
Wig (Offline)
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i will leave my pail outside, by the wall
collecting stars as they shoot from the sky
water dribbling from the dreg hidden beneath the darkness
the soft spark fairy lights in the water

i collect them and scatter them
beneath the soles of our feet
lighting a pathway of stars
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you can't beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
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Old 08-20-2013, 08:30 PM View Post #77 (Link)
Julian (Offline)
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whistling like gongs
over army conscription posters,
like monsters under bed and sirens
signalling impending death.
gunshots,
under the mountain sun,
of heaves and shouts
perpetuating the image
of a perfect family--
a well-meaning image
to live under a beret
instead of a jester hat.
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						Last edited by Julian; 08-21-2013 at 03:33 AM.
					
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Old 11-25-2013, 10:01 AM View Post #78 (Link) I have never longed this way
Raconteur (Offline)
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You lay on my bedroom floor surrounded by particle board.

Earlier, you ate an avocado that was not ripe,
drank a chai tea latte made from granules of dried milk
and hot water.

I wanted to kiss you, then. That is something I can only admit
in a poem winged this way:
shyly, sincerely, void of lying.

How bizarre it must be, to stare at a ceiling with low rafters,
thinking about Foucault, thinking about the word truth.

Nothing is true here, and what is literal is ethereal:
the disassembled desk, the Christmas lights,
the half-lidded blinds revealing a bloated, pre-winter sun.
  
						Last edited by Raconteur; 11-25-2013 at 10:53 AM.
					
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Old 11-26-2013, 07:34 AM View Post #79 (Link)
niente (Offline)
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each night
we are pulling gods out of ourselves;

we shed each other like
old skins. you crinkle
and I crack, our hands
press together when we pray.
they are like old tomes whose pages
fall apart under the weight
of sunlight.

my god burns. she is arching her back,
beating her fists into her chest
like a great warrior, calling
me to battle — yours drowns,
and drowns, lays under the ribcage
of a rock fathoms deep
and whispers to you from the ocean of sleep.

you tried to show me what he looks like,
pressed my palm to yours and said,
"I am plucking him from my chest, every moment I breathe.
he is in my hands, and feet, and mouth;
each time I speak, he is there,
in the cave of my cheek, under the shelf of my tongue,
listen.”

nothing came then, but the heavy beats
of my god, war drums pulsing
in the pads of my thumbs, the road
of my wrist, but you listened
and heard nothing but the rhythms
of your own sleep.
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Old 02-03-2014, 05:10 PM View Post #80 (Link) love::deity
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I will uncover a heart the same way I undress myself,
purposefully but with little deliberation.

I have collected love,
by the river, on the train, in cisterns across the world,
so that I might attract a God

(any of them would do).

Mechanically, I sort them and name them: these loves
like blouses and skirts, separated accordingly
(his, then hers),
washed, faded, torn, neglected, cherished.

I have come to no revelations;
I have stripped love until it is naked,
examined its body
(his, then hers),

only to retrieve the void behind desire
lacking any prophet to guide me.
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