my face--it itches with the lack of itself--
the less protruding nose--than yours--just sits flat
like a newborn's, the nostrils barely opening
as I let the blue soroundings of this world in
slowly sinking into the nothing inside
the black empty is shooting up green
it's now trees and thoughts and sadness sinking
in sod--that's dying--get your money back--
all the grass lain, your dirt-stained knees,
your hoe, your spade, your dark horse.
You've been trampled--the slamming of the
typewriter hammer, --it bangs-- out nothing
it's shooting out black--obscene,
Get your money back.
Tickle your toes. . .
Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
Recently I have been really attempting to delve into what it means to be a poet. Jim Morrison once wanted to be a poet, and look where it go...
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there is a small leaf over your eye and yet you can still see me.
stuck-wallpaper, tickled, matted-madness, in the morning before matinee wallflowers at school dances just want to be asked. ask them. they...
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