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trauma ward, awkward silence, big-teeth dog, 2 a.m.
a sad distance unfolding like the pot belly i’ve grown into as a sign of my wayward alcoholism but the funny thing is i don’t even feel the taste for it today, or yesterday, or last week. 
no wait i think last week i drank a lot but the point is i don’t want it in me anymore. at least for now. or maybe forever(?) i just wish i really do
that i would want something today. to hear your voice. to hold your hand, both tender and murderous impossibilities i cradle like raw broken eggs in my arthritic hands. i stretch my legs and i feel the pop-pop-crack- of another universe waking up with sandman eyes;
“you never just accept compliments” and you stormed off and my love life was a deceased slant of text on a torn headline of a newspaper someone must’ve been really excited to read but never got around to it:
i’m looking down at the boulevard of needles and coke. your skim milk loving is a philosophy, not a romantic incision. doctors bleed just as much as figurative
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carefully and very loud
you kind of had that tender watercolor droplets and soft benevolent morning-after vomit in your hair kind of ideological glow around your whole entire
frame like an angel that had stayed on earth too long but why? if you could always go to heaven on a whim like that? was it your dad? the way your mom had left you even before time had ever wanted to start up and run out for me and you and all our dead-end juniper friends? 
i ask myself these questions but my insides feel like cut up dead fish at the market. not even at the market for sale, just the leftover crap the salesperson threw over to his dog. not even his own dog, but a stray that lives somewhere behind the market grounds. so it goes.
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self-portrait in expired dog shit (economics)
you looked at me our eyes had wet and soft belonging; every wound under my coat was a throbbing ringing telephone, the old rotary kind that you’d throw across the hotel room and it would clatter and ding and break and shatter like
an automaton’s heart, with all the little metallic cubist and ivory valves coming undone like my secret retreat in the pool behind your uncle’s second summer house; we weren’t in love and that was a victory i clung to.
meteors raining fire and persimmons come like frost across my january tires; your tongue was a tongue there’s no room for symbolism here but still it meant so much to have that one last breath of someone else, to make me feel like i’m worthwhile to connect with even if it was just a
physical meandering. i think about you all the time. i think about you all the time. i don’t much care if you do the same. i don’t much care if you do the same. your old books and that painting you made half-awake, i threw them out years ago. i still have the wounds, though.
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christening a new affair underneath bird droppings; your talismans are in your hair and i’m still mopping
flowers eaten up by your feet, you curse and moan and fidget with the branches of this old and ugly place; bystanders will show up soon, after all it’s morning
i’m not a fan of this loose shit, you say under your nose like that; i take your hand to kiss it and a snake enters my chest like love’s last tenderness unsheathed. you read my latest poem last night and you laughed
michael told me you thought it was full of shit. i tried not to cry so i swallowed some more. it’s all tangled and hopeless
but at least it’s mine. so long, darling. i’ll be taking the 3:30 to tree lagoon and maybe i’ll get buried with the dead
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cruel arms; heavy with yesterday’s condensation. all night running from dreams. wake up in the alley between housing structures; stranger with knife thick with fat, eyes are glee for cutting.
i’m afraid so i dream up ancestral interstellar defenders and i wake up anyway.
looking into my paper cup. it’s full of jewels and owl droppings; i dig up all my old testimonies and shove them into the grand piano. your mouth is a snake charmer for ben’s brother and all the other guys that flew around in
concentric circles around the drum kits of gym panic. 
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runicrigel · a day ago
Miracle Worker
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I could feel you inside of me
Pillow extremities that are molting
Piano keys pressed
To a rhythm that only I can hear
but you won’t like it because
I don’t spell it out for you
Interpretation is too transitory
For a spoon fed society
I’m in love with someone long dead
So I’m okay with being alone
With an aorta in the grave, foot in the street
stagnant cliché but no less true
Performative sure, but realer than you
I can’t spell it out for you
Split me in two and mince words
Word play and kink
in the chain, oh well
Role walked upright and arrow straight
The pace is for me alone
I make my own pepper spray
It’s easier than you’d think
So much easier than you’d think
Quaff it down, throat on fire
Eyes shattered, nothing profound
Just you and me, me and you
And I won’t spell it out for you
Even though you want me to
There’s things I won’t do
And I won’t spell it out for you
Piecemeal on a linear trajectory
That’s called a road hazard
When you can’t circle back around
It’s life and death and that’s enough
Devil may care airs
Fingers and tongue in competition for what
Incantation sparse and frayed at the end
Because I won’t spell it out for you
But it’s not fun if it’s obvious
And it’s not sincere if I have to tell you what to say
Don’t cave, I’m watching to see
If you’ll spell it out for me
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I keep you alive
Through word association
I see your frizzy hair as it froths
up against convention
You’re in my idea of sweet teenage rebellion
in all its gooey mistakes and
factory of phases
You grabbed fantasies from the conveyer belt
Wrapping yourself in moving parts
riding with the busyness before it rode away with you.
Yet, you stay
characature still in my mind
You in different categories
boxed up beauty
taped down to a life that didn’t fit you
personality poking out of glass ceilings
Precious awkwardness
I long for your protection
with its fuzzy quietness
soft revolution
Eyes that held life accountable
eyes that stopped a thought on its arrogant journey,
checked the thought for validation
caused the thought to recreate itself before nodding it forward.
you said to me even though
we both knew
that neither of us
Somehow you kept bobbing along for as long as you did
dancing on a thread of life
turning edges
into cosy sweaters.
My grief slips from my eyes
jumps down my face
noises burst from my tunnelled throat
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wedge-of-words · 2 days ago
Hyacinth and daffodil bloomed in the flower beds, violet and periwinkle in the meadows; damp, bedraggled white butterflies fluttered drunkenly in the hedgerows. I put away my winter coat and overshoes and walked around, nearly light-headed with joy, in the my shirtsleeves.
Donna Tartt, The Secret History
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libaravindran · 2 days ago
In the land of Permaculture and Poetry
In the land of #Permaculture and #Poetry is a reflective #prose piece about how practices of #passion that #heal and #liberate ourselves can fine tune our #awareness of #life.
“Nature always wears the colors of the spirit.” Ralph Waldo Emerson A rotary application of oneself to a dedicated practice sheds lights and illuminates the heart in accordance with one’s values. Through centuries of oppression and exploitation of nature and ourselves, we have seen how the climate and ecological crisis has taken root; the mirroring of our iniquity presents a challenge to change…
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show them the losing batting averages/clear divide and taken over yet again-again-again-again!
dedicated sweetly and kindly, tenderly, to billy (july to march, centuries ago)
i miss you as the strongest feeling in my chest right now. my heart? it’s yours. i’d trade spleens with you. liver and my membrane shells, just so that you’d stay. 
billy’s strength and pure-light joy, that golden crown that weighed about as much as atlas, his gentle face and gentle hands and voice for angels to bake holy, heaven bread;
they’d kill me in a forest-minute. take me out past the banks and shovel me with party poetry. vasya took a bullet to the gutter of his self. frozen water in the sea. saved by polish ship at 3......i miss you stronger than the knives in my right knee.
i’m so arthritic, billy, and you’re everything and dead. my self-defense is self-destruction. i confuse the predators out here, in american suburbia;
everything hurts and my weight is increasing like the ambivalent velocity of earth concurrent to the weeping of her moon; we’re always reaching earth but backwards (backwards) and i miss my last and final chance to kiss you “hi”
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the salivating thaw, the flooding town of packed bags and waves
drowning in waiting and old paintings. reproductions of reproductions. except i’m not really in control. the hate is being spread like legs at a carnival. not my scene, said liz. she’s still limping after johnny and his fucking end-of-god abuse. i’ve been directing movies in my head, the kind that end with him in hospital. i’ll see him later on. at cassandra’s.
//////////////// ///////////////
there are words i can’t pronounce with music or with earth. i wash my face with mud. i’m forgetting me all the time. i thought recently that god is probably a little bird. i saw him i think. he flew away behind the other monument out here -- to old old old old odd america.
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i wipe my face with mud your face is moonlight in the suburbs of my nightmare life; i’m really tired of these words. they’re eating me up - the swimming knives’ divide. it’s pretty clear.
i feel so done and old and washed away. all the time. a hug goodbye; it’s only 7 in the afternoon. i loved you but all my thoughts and words are salivated ivory. i really can’t survive another year
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savage, solemn years as i look back and dry out in this fish-gill spring
we met in the fall when things were calm cold......
reconnected in another summer, post-diaspora and reluctant life;
you took me back into the fold...... i drowned amidst the pages of the books inside your brown and library eyes......
i'm still afraid of wearing watches; clocks are rabid animals in every room of this tall house;
we cut our hair and switched high-fives in little forests and purple-golden fish bowls sans the dirty water..... the dirty water was a homemade miracle in your mom's little heaven-kitchen......
i hope to see something like that again, without the masks and costumes and the capes i tied around my neck, hoping the darkest hopes i knew that year.
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can’t replace or relate (what was and will be)
fear and disregard and shaking trembling bones. the world is teeth. the world is groaning. but which? the world of men with scaffolding and brick tar and jelly wounds. shaking the trees for miles and deliverance. fresh fruit at the start of the white fence. the fence is on fire. my eyes are velvet clumps of fish guts. 
your mouth your mouth your teeth i’m asking. vehemence. soldiers walking up and down the coast looking for fishing boats. spying on the birds and demented old congregators, they’re trying to punish god for this.
the year is a tattoo on an angel’s neck. i hide drugs in my body for the poor and the disenfranchised. this is a dream. i smuggle light to all the towns that the bats and bullets and beasts had rendered sleepless for ever.
(the fear of not being good. of never having been. of not being enough. leaking out emptiness. even an absence can be quantified in a world running on made-up bullshit signals and slips of corroded tree stamps. trickle down trickle down)
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miracles like tic tacs stuffed down my throat
“a cry for help a hint of anesthesia” the sound of breaking glass enamored magical and true. they said the water’s too shallow how could anyone drown here? rhetorical questions asked in dreams    ///////////////////////// 
waking up with my hand asleep twice in the night of tortured drunk lions. fever all the time. i’d apologize but i really don’t have time. standing up is difficult today. knees feel like knives. i’d apologize but i need my strength for the walk across the hall. to the kitchen. i need water. it’s all i need i need some water. “god in his wisdom made you understand god in his wisdom took you by the hand”
heart disease. angry angry heart disease. my bones reek of soil and wet grass. dirt of older, more tender months
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there’s a soldier waiting for me / at the end of the road
tired so tired of waiting for things i don’t even want // you take me by the hand but really it’s the feet, the shoes that stink of last week’s slime, the drinks and vomit all sublime; you kiss me once, you punch me twice /
i bleed out in the street (alright) alright, but where’s the money? how’s alice, anyway? and tom? and will? are they alive? you look so thin....
the last time i had been / awake enough to see you /// was the island year of our old war // arthritis books and miles up and down the cul-de-sac / i ran to you / i ran to you / alright (alright)
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"all they got a key to is the shit house. and swear to me you will never wear a policeman's badge"
goodbye commercials. fighting apathy. a losing fight with stench of vomit 2 years old and counting. sheep at sunrise. writing is a compulsion light reading is a festival for sober lizards. the repression of being a drunk, cold-blooded animal. and striving, against all bone-smashing odds, for empathy.
empathy is a goddamn ghost. and i write. i'm not a writer. i'm a compulsive apologist. my own soul, the subject. ink, occasional pencils, typing on keyboards and screens and writing in bathrooms. knowing very little. it's a compulsion. like anything if a compulsion.
like breathing is a compulsion. like weather and shitting and solitude and sex. and wanting to be what? it's hard to say. the linguistic systems we have now weren't designed with happy freedom in mind. like hate at all the parties.
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