deep tissue magazine 15
TRANSCRIPT
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Deep Tissue
Magazine
15
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Poets:
Duane LockeFelino A. Soriano
Neil Ellman
Alan Britt
Paula D. Lietz
Evil Dick
Andrew Scott
A.g. Synclair
Amit Parmessur
Linda Crate
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Duane Locke
CONVERSATIONS OF A PROFESSOR OF COGNITIVE SCIENCE
AND A PROFESSOR OF MATHEMATICS AT THE NOLI ME TANGERE BAR
I am trying to cleanse my body. What type of soap
Do you use? How do you know what type of soap to use?
There are many soaps. Cant try them all to find which will
Benefit the radical singularity of your particular concrete
Existence of uncleanness. How do you decide what soap
Your apparent free will will choose? That is, if there is a will,
And whatever the word free means. The concept of the
Will might be just another human lie. Determinism might
Be a counter lie. Everybody lives by lies. So how do you
Select a soap. All advertisements are lies, traps, tricks
To exploit. Think, all these advertisers that sponsor
The junk and trivial that the slave mentalities, the people,
Find to be their exciting entertainment and salvation are lies.
I am not talking about taking a bath. Youre not.
No. I am talking about a philosophical problem of
Psychological exorcism. Psychological exorcism!
Yes, a deepening of my of unique and my universal
Corporeality, which is a monism of a fused and
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Inseparable spiritual-physical, that has been derogated,
Corrupted, and diminished by what was spoken into me
By the popular parlance of people, my parents, my professors,
My priest and above all, popular opinion--which is always
Lies. I must exorcise what has been spoken into me
By the majority. I must cleanse my body of these defects.
Oh, now I understand. You are not going to take a bath,
But are trying to rid yourself of all the false beliefs, and false
Values spoken into you by your fellow man. Well,
Such things do not concern me. I lose myself
Totally, fully, completely in the contemplation of mathematics.
I am in a universe, a cosmos of bliss, and in this state of being,
I know nothing about my defects, nothing about myself,
I Know nothing about the lies my fellow men speak and love.
I exist as a pure mind, and there is nothing else.
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HIGHER EDUCATION: THE HOUR CALLED
EUDAIMONIC AT A BAR NEAR A TAMPA UNIVERSITY
There must a million, over a million, Yes, over a million gods.
Really, you know I have never thought about how many
Gods the human fantasy has invented. Over a million,
Perhaps a billion. Think of all those many gods invented by
Polynesians, Africans, Eskimos, Then there is the Eastern-
Western tradition I always liked the forest gods, Pan,
Faunus, Priapus, Vidar. I liked Zoroaster too, not the Nietzschean
Zarathustra, but the real Zoroaster. I like the mermaids, the
Naiads. I often wished I were a Merman. Well as I was saying,
Or was trying to say. In the Eastern-Western tradition, there
Is El, Baal, Marmaduke, Atman, and hundreds more. It is said
There were 800 gods in Mesopotamia. You know that wine taster
Was right, absolutely correct about rating Carpazo Brunello, 2005,
92, and Carparzo, 2006, 91 The two bottles of wine
Mentioned sat at their table. Wine cost, $100 each bottle at this bar.
You are right about the wine. That wine taster was a genius,
Right at the top of the bell curve. He must have an IQ of 200.
My gustatory sensibility has had the empirical experience of tasting
That 2006 is one-percent inferior to 2005. I verify the gospel
Of this wine taster. So do I. A man with such a genius
For distinguishing the axiology of wine, might with his intelligence
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Be qualified to distinguish if any one out of these billion gods
Was real, actually existed, and were not just an invention
Of us weak human beings fantasy. Yes, he should.
Let us write him and inquire. Yes. Yes, but I dont
Know who this wine taster is. I was told about the test
From a professor of evolutionary psychology The same with me, I learned
about
The wine tasting from hearsay.
PROM NIGHT AND NEGRONI
We, two graduates from Tampa High Schools sat
In a private room at the bar. The room was decorated
With reproductions of Aubrey Beardsleys illustrations
For Oscar Wildes Salome. We sat by the picture
With the long strings of black ink dripping from the platter
With Johns head, and the black ink was supposed
To represent blood. I asked her if she knew who
This John was? She said she did not know, she had
Never heard of him. The room was crowded, mostly
Everyone drunk. Some were already passed out on the floor.
Our prom was sponsored by a university
To entice us to enroll for the less-than-mediocre education it sold.
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We were drinking a Negroni, with Vermouth, minus the gin,
And I kept putting the glass in from of my eyes so I could
Look at her through the rosy coloring of Campari. The rose
Tint reddened the silver ring she had pierced into her nose.
I was attired in New Denim, and she was dressed in a
Carmen Marc Valuo, silver above and black below.
We were discussing how the memes of this world might
Have been different and certainly improved if Aristotles Ousia
Had not been translated in Latin as Substantia. She pointed out
That Martin Heidegger has demonstrated that Aristotle was
Not very skilled in Greek, or the student copy of his lectures
Were not skilled in Greek. Yes, he agreed, and said,
If Aristotle had been more skilled in Greek, it might have
Saved the world, for he would not have attached Meta
To his second book on Physics. He would have called
His book something like A Deep Exploitation into Physics.
The whole Western world have been led into a truer
Direction. And would not have separated the body from the soul,
Mind from matter, or the physical from the spiritual.
The word Meta mislead Western thought. There never
Would have been that hideous philosophy of Descrates
And the Scientist Configuration, if Aristotle had known
Better than to use the prefix, meta.
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She became rapturous upon hearing these words of mine
Leaned across the table, knocking over a glass of Negroni,
And kissed him full and long on the mouth.
GELTON HANT, PROFESSOR OF PHYICS, FINDS
SALVATION WHEN HE MEETS ANOTHER CAMPARI
DRINKER IN A BAR ACROSS FROM THE UNIVERSITY
I love the way you have dyed your hair rose,
It is the same color as Campari.
It was mauve last week, a mauve trying to be pink.
It was!
Yes, I attended an exhibition of Whistlers paintings.
I wore a black silk dress with peacock spots. My back bare.
I can tell you this. I can sense you are not one of the slave mentalities,
One of the hoi polloi. One of the crowd, as Kierkegaard
Would call the fools. I can confess to you
That I am a normal human being, being a normal human being
Makes me greedy and endowed with a forceful desire
To show off.
But I cant find a single person, much less an audience,
That will watch me show off.
How Sad.
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In the class room, I tell dirty jokes, used the same vocabulary
The students use, four-letter dirty words, but my students
Never listen to me. They just read Cliffs notes. I am
Finding it impossible to show off.
How sad.
I use to show off to my mom and dad.
They would applaud loudly
When I dressed in a tight pink suit,
Would stand on an enormously large white ball and roll.
How wonderful.
But my mom and my dad are now dead.
How sad.
I once did a break dance in a shopping mall,
But no one stopped to watch me.
All were hurrying to sale of Vitamin E.
How Sad.
If you give me $200, I will watch you show off.
Wonderful! Well go to the motel on the corner.
Ill go up to my office and get the large white ball.
Ive kept the large white ball all these years.
And then when well rent a room at the motel.
I will stand on the large white ball.
I no longer have the tight pink suit from my childhood,
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So I will stand naked.
You can pretend that I am wearing the tight pink suit.
A HYMN, A LAMENT, FOR WHAT ONCE WAS,
SKIN AROUND STRA GONNES NAVEL
Stra, my darling, my poetry reading last night
At the Charles Bukoswki Coffee House of John Drydens
Absalom and Achitophel was so successful
That I was inspired to write this poem, A Hymn
To you Stra. The coffee house where I read
Is a replica of a sixties counter culture coffee house.
Everyone had those special bright eyes of someone
Who had taken an eye dropper and dropped LSD on their tongue.
When I read the Dryden line Down to the dregs of democracy,
The audience went wild with rapture. A boy and a girl,
Underaged, illegal at this coffee house where whiskey
Is sold, took off their clothes. My intense reading of
Drydens line put the pair in ecstasy, and as
I read the line, the couple was tossed in the air by the crowd.
This Hymn of mine is dedicated to what was
Once natural and untarnished, the skin around
Your navel. I remember the beautiful indentation
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When we were naked on a bench in Al Lopez Park.
The shadow of a cypress tree enhanced the texture.
I contemplated this gorgeous skin around your navel
In my dreams and in my MIT meditations, but know the skin
Is obscured by a tattoo. The beauty of the skin
Around your navel is gone. Oh Stra, why did
Did you get drunk from inhaling vodka in Ybor City, and have this
Tattoo, a Christmas holly wreath, put on your marvelous skin.
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Felino A. Soriano
Various Tessellations 29
after Dave Douglas November
Reactionary moments, the echoed bounce of cold
unyet whole though
language
of its preferential clarity
underlines colds various extensive paradigms as
fractals displays evening-soon, sooner
optimism against shallow swell of lakes ornamental ascending
mathematical
halos.
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Various Tessellations 30
after Mark Turners The Other Side of Time
Anecdotal sleep, persuasion-rest
occupies bodily
reenactments
:
physical fortunate
fathoms amid fragile escalations
unanger
optimal
regurgitation of systematic movement
discarding
tonal appositional frequencies of hope/hopeless
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founding
amid fevers dissipating claws
and
ornamental minings.
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Various Tessellations 31
after Bobo Stensons Pages
Because the garden lacks
landscape, |winds raking anger|
delineation the cluster retains warmth then watered dissolution, errant
fulcrum, broken at-leg pivotal
indentation turned or twirled containing method of fingeringrealization,
thus day as paginated revelation, persona
focus describes prose of hours sufficient errors, erased
by musical rippling (improvisation, here, the epitome of constant towardsustained ________)
listening
the maneuver engages, curtailing temporal assignments
visceral compromise thorough degrees of rising
demonstrations.
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Various Tessellations 32
after Paul Motian Trios Blue Midnight
Exhaled mobilizations
within leaves of shedding moments,
shade unneeded
between miracles and sounds of
saddened tributes
half among life against fractioned
semblances, unrecognized, verbatim
as the elder whose sporadic movement
remembers youth and the
pentagon of elation annunciating
halos.
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Various Tessellations 33
after Geri Allens Flying Toward the Sound
following alternating manias of
architectural
transgressions. Radial fears transcend linear collocations
too, of
errors momentary reaction
negative thus negotiating fallacy, emotional
fragrance
transposes transcoded murals melancholy as mundane
fellowships of rudimentary
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Neil Ellman
The Invisible Harp
(after the painting by Salvador Dal)
I , too, made music once
murmurations of invisible strings
tuned to dreams inside of dreams
vibrations on the skin
my harp grieved the melody
it made on lifeless air
the music came too soon
and disappeared too soon
my fingers having played their last
while I lived on in silent pain.
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Visage of War
(after the painting by Salvador Dal)
Once only a boy
full of himself
assurance
and patriotic songs
grown old before their time
his time
eaten by worms
where eyes should be
the gape of war
a mouth
full of sacrifice
the cries
of dead and dying men
once boys
full of themselves
no longer sing
an anthem
other than a scream.
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Elegy to the Spanish Republic, No. 35
(after the painting by Robert Motherwell)
Bombs whistled bloody black
as they fell
three at a time
a funeral dirge
where nothing would ever grow
or sound the same
again
charred earth
so much for resurrection
in a requiem
of blackened flesh.
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Covenant
(after the painting by Barnett Newman)
Singular embodiment of the singular
eternity defines its own place
red perpendicular
motion in its space
covenant irrevocable
passing through a sleepless night
truth
like a river
has no consequence.
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Alan Britt
MANNA
Pulverize the carrots, add beets,
celery, kale, one organic apple
and toss in a knuckle of ginger.
Guzzle the entire mix.
This juice will revive you from the dead,
will merge you with the One
so that you too can paint yellow
suspenders down the black shoulders
of a large grasshopper with round
drops of rust for eyes.
This juice will allow you to hear
tiny green bells shaken inside crucifixes
by infants newly awakened in their cradles.
Indeed, this juice will sustain you
through agony and doubt
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about the true identity of the universe.
Oh, yes. I almost forgot. Make sure
to include a wild poem as your holy biscuit
with every cup of this marvelous juice.
GERONIMOS CADILLAC
(They took old Geronimo by storm,
and ripped off the feathers to his uniform.
They stole his land, now they wont give it back,
and gave Geronimo a Cadillac.)
(--sung by Johnny Rivers
--lyrics by Michael Murphy)
Geronimo squats on a rock
overhanging a cliff
in total darkness,
except for certain stars
dandelion threads
crisscrossing the universe.
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Oh, now, take me back,
I wanna ride in Geronimos Cadillac.
Later Geronimo sells his autograph
at the St. Louis Worlds Fair, 1904,
25 a pop.
But, tonight, an icy southwest wind
nips the Appaloosa flanks
of an October moon
in Juarez, Mexico,
as it always has
and always will.
Oh, now, take me back,
I wanna ride in Geronimos Cadillac.
Oh, now, take me back.
I wannaride in Geronimos Cadillac.
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ODE TO GUILTY PLEASURES
Guilty pleasures row gondolas
through the moons unbuttoned nightgown
rippling a canals bare shoulders.
Cicadas and woodpeckers chatter.
Stars etch jellyfish light across an August sky.
Golden tomatoes moan.
Crickets, large drops of crude, take
magnesium bites from dusk's humid torso.
ODE TO SILLINESS
All the birds of our neighborhood
are here in my backyard, today.
Theyve commenced a meeting
of some kind
and seem to be addressing their irritation at me
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though I remain estranged to their demands.
If somehow I could discern
their agenda, I might at least
attempt to alleviate a modicum
of their distress.
But, alas, they congregate and chatter
incessantly, all at the same time.
Its like being married,
for gods sake.
No wonder I dont understand
one damn thing theyre saying!
ODE TO CRACKER
My mother says he was a cocker spaniel,
my brother says a beagle,
but Im telling you
Cracker was a full-blooded Irish setter!
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We bombed the house, had him flea dipped,
as he often wandered off Tuscaloosa Avenue
through our West Palm neighborhood,
ending up at a neighbors house or the pound.
Each time retrieved with promise of collar
and a tag.
But this dog had a legitimate sense
he deserved better,
starting with long, intimate walks
and regular hours.
Not one to give up easily, my older brotherpleads:Well, if this is the worst catastropheour family ever has to suffer!
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Paula D. Lietz
Heart Flailing
In darkness I reached too far yet not far enoughlaying bewildered under the boughs of the tree, looking up
feeling broken a million pieces, by your lack of responseI don't understand thisinformation highway, I just know its full of stop signs
I was part of the storm, finding the strength to be but I,pulsating steadfast passion encouraging me to fly, thelesson being small steps need to be taken before flight
I was determined to make the perfect snow angelbody pressed agains the ground as sky and earth merged
I laid there, arms, legs heart flailing
the length of my scars
euphoria, your surreal mania beyond enchantment
sip of your essence and the reins fell from my hands
whetting senses thought dormant
I've noticed there is no path, entwining enchantment
amid cautious thoughts that nurture the ardor waiting ~
unfolding like fractals in mutual esteem
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shine with me your wisdom as I stumble a bit cry a bit
laugh at errors and wonders accepting the journey
where not knowing is the essence of being
pivotal twist of the stem, another realm
a quantum surrender of unknown quantities
losing myself deeply, immersed in this variable
yes exploring the unknowns
I seek my reply by leaning into self-growth
listening to it whisper, it's here within
rejoice the day my passion intense will
scream the length of my scars
If you Wanted
some say it's over I perceive we have just begunof this change upon change I sense the growing
I consumed you yet never let you in sadly a roll playedthe theory proved false what do we do know
you're unbearable tell me of this sensationthat flows inside of me - inundated with denial
no not me
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immersed in this one moment exploring theunknowns holding onto nothing as nothingdoes not exist - so you say
if you really wanted me you would find a way
Crash of the Waves
I claimed it as mine this peace upon the seashore
and laid upon the memory of you , listening to the
roll of the waves
I watched the wavelets as the engulfed today to become
the future beyond my control - it was then beyond that
moment that I knew I was the worn smooth pebble
dropped, creating a ripple
vulnerable and open I tasted your ebb and flow as
I birthed your rhythm, knowing it was never my dance
but one with all within this droplet of life
incessant ocean hurled her waves upon the shore
thrashing foam and inlets
wet clothes clinging - oh god the awful clinging
I and they discarded, a need to be naked
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I lay upon the grit of the sand warm from the sun
phantom kisses placed here and here
the music of your hand a simple seduction
one trace of your finger brings me to life
I thirst to sup the wine from your lips
revelling in the pleasure of your tongue a slow gyration
how can one be lost in the moment when it is the only
place I prefer to be my senses never more aware
roll after roll the crash of the waves
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Evil Dick
cannibals
my worst dreams
always center on cannibalism
still i find myself
sitting on plates
near cutlery
well basted
and believing
in the communion of saintsthe redemption of the complacent
.
it is all about commitment
choosing the right tattoo
paying for the skin graft
again
.
young smiles beaten flat
submission to the lost
the voices outside the windowprove the descending slope
the mastery of self and
invasive chemistry
add to the terror
the view from the platter
.
i shake my head
i acknowledge
the additive symmetry
the remembranceslice by slice
some parts stay
guarding rome while it burns
all matters
as individual waves
reflexive tragedy
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in reflected circumstance
.
sweet nothing gravy
makes its own sauce
and the meat
at the bottom of the pan
always tastes best
slaking curiosity
by the fork full
blessed be
the kindred know
this nights passing
will not be sweet
the complete peril
brought by this fading
this margin crossed
where no light escapes
the hounds
all abed
jack rabbit dreaming
of midsummer morning
save for those
which walk with the devil
until church bells
strike
calling the faithful
to remember disbelief
the disregard
the kindred know
meaning arrives
departsreturns
all on the same wind
the kindred know
to bless
all things
all of it
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pieces of silver
times path
each toll greater
the last obscene
more insidious
nostalgia conquers
painting sunshine
where dreary corners
should be
carving ham
out of soapstone
administering
tincture of iodine
drops of morphine
on ones best
forgotten
memories
00011011
near infinite
empty halls ring
cupping the hushed voices
the vermin the
parasites the
vultures of court
the anticipated cry
the man is dead
heads snap to sides
allegiances forged
glances etched
scrimshaw hard
lines drawn
to complete a picture
the new order
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emerging may flies
carry prayers
for absolution
upon their wings
still water
hand carved children
play spontaneously
as directed
he waits
with unsettling calm
wrapped in brown paper
on his lap
along side stray hairs
from a long dead cat
his hand is free
to loosen ties
adjust hats
ascertain
the validity of sunset
the package
tied with sisal
whispers delicate
obscenities
only to be spoken
between lovers
tears gather
but retreat finding
no path
until whistles blow
children gather
and the street lightscome on
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Andrew Scott
Awake
Tired, laying down, body so tired,
needing the sleep of never never land,
falling between realms,
feeling nothing but misty air,
rising from underneath me,
somehow massaging, pinching,
pulling, small scrapes.
Out of the foggy darkness,
an unholy shadow comes towards me,
dressed in tight, shiny black,
slowly hovers over me,
skin is twitching, tingling,
eyes so hypnotic,
staring when her body touches mine,
feels like she crawling into me,
muscles moving involuntarily,
soft scratches opening,
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feeling the blood leaving,
body lowering into the mist,
joining past bones she is leading me too,
heart slows to a stop,
takes my hands into hers,
leads me to my final resting place,
feeling my death,
nothing has never made me feel so awake.
Ghost Dance
The low muffles of a hypnotic dance,
days of slow movement towards resurrection,
cleansing by renouncing temptation,
voices of the tribes were the only instruments,
bringing back the Indian dead of yesteryear,
a time of family and rejoice not mourning,
sharing in the belief of the prophecies of tomorrow.
The prophecies of tomorrow were what lead to slaughter,
the hands of the white that had bullets of fear,
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fear of the ghost dance, shirts of the unknown,
extinguishing what they did not understand,
bringing fathers, mothers, and children to silence.
I stand out and look at the plains,
think of the unthinking minds of the past,
my ancestors that did not understand,
the slow singing and chanting of peace,
the hope for a tomorrow executed,
I stare at the embers of the dead fire of innocence,
and cry for the forgiveness of the lost ghosts of dance.
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A.g. Synclair
DECEMBER IN THREE PARTS
I
Just east of the Gallatin, we cling to little nuggets of time. A bone in the ear
reminds us that Christmas will be different this year, spending money we don't
have on whiskey we shouldn't drink.
II
Outside the kitchen window two sparrows fought to the death. A few broken
quills and a dying declaration that there is no god, from two young sparrows,
dead, in a tangle of frozen leaves. You try to imagine why they fought. Probably
over another sparrow. I suppose love is hard, even for a bird.
III
There is a story behind everything. Behind boulders. Behind stars. Behind endless
miles of fence posts. The men here smell like fish. The women here live in thespace in between. We are all once removed from small degrees of separation,
from the Bridgers, from the Big Sky and beyond. The natives saw you coming
from a thousand miles away. They are desperados. They know how you tore
your shirt.
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Amit Parmessur
Frog Hunting
As if hed thrown his toned body
into the lush grass,
like a lame stone flying.
To see those muscular thighs
what if he were to land on our nose!
I had to ask myself why
he should dangle on
that mossy rock like that. Hewas intimidating.
See, see if you understand the
watercolor stripes hes
proudly sporting.
The burn in his throat,
I see nothing more mighty.
You care nothing for
his youthful eyes that pleadfor a life smooth
as your favorite Kraft Cheese?
Wife, abandon this frog.
I am not a seasoned hunter
lets chase something else.
Im just a few meters from him
Wake up, big frog.
Im holding the blue bucket,
running, like a mad crab
towards him.
As if he would plunge into
the sound of the dull water now!
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There I go.
There he goes.
Where I Find Love
I find my love from
the dust on the windowsills,
from the blackened flowers
in a garden
behind my favorite bench.
If this vast sky can see itself
in a puddle,
why cannot I see
my beloved in the sky?
The human tongue is
never tired to spell love.
I find my love from
the whispers of holy silence.
If you play with love fire
jets out and
burns the whole stable.
Drawing scars on
dead love stories is useless.
The cops wont arriveand arrest you
for changing your name
one morning
because of love.
I find my love from
a tireless, tiny river
flowing over unknown lands.
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Starfish
Whats that, Starfish!Fulsi. Fulsi. Fulsi, stella.
Why are you stuck to this old pole?Why have you been tossed onto this cheap
pier by a heartless, blind fisherman?
Fulsi. Fulsi.
The sun is up, and the tides going out.
Youll die, Starfish.
You are still fire.
Thats what I see, in your keen eyes.
You are water.
Thats what I see, plentiful, in your future.You are earth, like everyone else.
You dont want
to be just a handful of air right?
How can you be a doomed
traveller, so early, on this infinite horizon?
I know, you are stubborn
and wont let anyone pick you
up and gently throw you into the ocean.
There are millions of starfish
gone astray. Make a difference,
by saving yourself
Come on Starfish!
Shake yourself again into symmetry.
Rejuvenate your hundreds of tiny feet,
with the brave boots of a second life
its now, or never ever.
Come, however or whoever you are,
lets make the searocks the roundabouts of risky adventures.
Lets hide in the stone pockets,
dream madly under the tides rough lip.
Sing beautiful, little Starfish! Look
at the light in the ocean above and sing.
Cantare. Cantare, stella. Cantare.
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Fantasies
I sit on the tip of fragrant, evening pines.
I breathe the clouds.
A train often whistles,
with a fountain of flowers flying.I see myself jumping out,
with the pure piano of dreams
escorting my dance.
I know if I have received
the phone call of tomorrow
I shall receive the
voice of tomorrow too.
At night I envy the stars.
I see red tongues in the
rocks that talk secrets to me.
I nourish a myriadof illegal feelings by the window.
Death is ugly.
The death of dreams is uglier.
I know out here,
therell be another way to be.
To forget philosophy
I sleep on the windowsill.
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The Moons Paramour
There was rain last night.
I stood in the middle of the road,
holding a red umbrella.I looked in one direction, then the other.
I did not see your light.
There is no rain tonight.
O Moon of mine, creamy as
newborn, lost lambsnever have you been
nearer to earth!
I am the happiest lark around,seeing you after so, so long.
I wish I could pluck
you and make love
with you in my poor pocket.
I will be old with the scars
of your face etched into me.
I will give
even your shadow a name.
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Linda Crate
scarred
you haunt me in scars
they are pearly like moon
tears yet cling like moss;
I cannot just discard them
as easily as the trash I am
forced to look into theheart of them and face the
music that entrench me in
they carry a sad lilt to them
like a star in mourning I
see a falling bright beam
of lantern shattering to
the earth; a shooting star
that overshot its aim, I am
your vestibule you pour in
all your lies and all your
truths; I cannot tell where
I end and you begin, I am
a sea of guilt and regret,
embalmed in your silver fog.
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anger of a woodmer
I am the mermaid of wood
painted on your ship, you do
not pay me any mind as we
fly through the adventurous
sea, seeking riches and the
mayhem of pirates; I am not
appreciated or even cared for
just one of these days, just one
I will pry my frame from you
and slip into the sea, my oak
will become the sinew of flesh;
I will flash harpy teeth and
become a siren in my rage; you
will regret never talking to me
or knowing me as you should.
died among the lilies
I laid in a field of poppies,
you poured your white wine
lies into my mouth daintily;
I chewed the grapes slowly
you drenched me in ecstasy
of euphoria and desire, I felt
a twinge of pain when you
left me here in these blooms
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I never wanted to be possessed
by anyone in the world but you;
you left me stranded in the inky
black ocean of deceits sorrow,
I laid myself to die among lilies.
to: the goblin king
my soul is filled with trepidation
whenever you come around, I feel
fingers prying into my soul without
meeting your gaze; I know you can
see through me as if Im transparent
you make me uncomfortable in my
own skin; you make me itch from the
inside out, in places I didnt know
could itch like inside my fingers; orin my very veins, you wash sorrow
onto me more quickly than the rain
can nimbly wash it away; every time
you come around you erode me piece
by piece; youre killing me with hands
of the ocean, and I am going numb
but mark my words, one day, when Im
stronger, Ill send you back to hell where
you belong; you will no longer have any
more power over me, your handsome face
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will be withered like autumn roots in winter.
cut by apathy
loneliness thinks of me too often;
melancholy settles in my brow far
too oft, they snatch at me when my
joy is lilting ever closer; I shove them
away for a while, but always return
I have cried all the tears my soul can
hold; I have been dashed upon the rocks
as many times as I can stand, I dont
want to face that place again; hope seems
to be an illusion singing on wings that I
can never dream of catching; happiness adelusion that only exists in movies, the
warmth of love a salve washed away years
ago; weathered by time against me, I have
cried tears that arent my own, I only wish
that I can breathe again on my own terms;
that one day I will remember the topography
of a smile, that autumns golden laughter will
wash a new wave of joy over me that cannot
b h d i th i f dli d