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From August Thirteenth
I.
My breath warms her hips
in telephone shudders.
Words fasten her senses
to penetrate the heat.
She thumps to the beat
of the theory she rides
and releases her heart
with the musical groan.
II.
She sleeps alone
in my magic bed.
O, the nightmare is killed
by the Jackals
They rip apart
the things she fears
Killing fast her misery
She wades through her life in a bliss
and sponges up the water.
III.
God is glowing in these walls
and shining a musical field.
The light is compass at neon mind
And the only direction is up.
And I go up
And I go up
IV.
Whatev.
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Comment by: head - 2007-09-15 09:41
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Usually I don't like poetry and would like to slaughter all bad poets, but I liked this one.
This one is good, I think. |
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Hey Johnny S, it's good to have a new piece from you. I really dig the abstraction of this, crumbling away until we're left with, well, not even a word - an abrupt abbreviation. My favourite phrase in here was "telephone shudders". Could do with a little work in places, some lines didn't feel right for me ("The light is compass at neon mind") but there is something beguiling about this virus of language leaking out on to the cyber page ... "Killing fast her misery". If only that was true of most of our lives, J.S., we might be a lot happier.
Have a great weekend, amigo.
Paul :D |
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Haha. Whatev. This is a great piece! I don't have any criticsms (did i spell that right?) lol...one of the best ive read on this site
keep at it,
C |
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