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Literature Text
"Good,"
says the author at our building door,
"that there are no fires in Brooklyn."
But he is blind at 8:00,
and too easily persuaded by the dole of feminists
skinned by gabbling coins,
as good a donation as a hunger artist could hope for.
His only subjects of choice are
dopamine
and the sexual affections of male ballet dancers;
but he has never broached them in the same conversation.
This is why. This is why,
when we hear him talking about fire,
we are all thrown from the memory
of our standard/gather-round/assumed positions,
and why we all
flutter
to find vacant plots on the cement around him,
and whip out our lighters and dear cigarettes:
agile, self-mangling gunslingers,
we have been prepared for this pleasant novelty
—all day.
says the author at our building door,
"that there are no fires in Brooklyn."
But he is blind at 8:00,
and too easily persuaded by the dole of feminists
skinned by gabbling coins,
as good a donation as a hunger artist could hope for.
His only subjects of choice are
dopamine
and the sexual affections of male ballet dancers;
but he has never broached them in the same conversation.
This is why. This is why,
when we hear him talking about fire,
we are all thrown from the memory
of our standard/gather-round/assumed positions,
and why we all
flutter
to find vacant plots on the cement around him,
and whip out our lighters and dear cigarettes:
agile, self-mangling gunslingers,
we have been prepared for this pleasant novelty
—all day.
Literature
The human immune system
this is war: ill and remote
i cannot stand it.
i see battling blood cells in carpark zombies -
poor babes cannot breathe in yellow
lard streams. their exasperated tears
cause cotton to dampen
most unattractively.
a headless high.
restless, i feel the quiet discomfort
of unwashed toes. they never grow -
stagnant and stubborn. apathetic,
they are a bored grandpa with a shrinking tv
who believes he can count pores
on unshaved faces. really,
it's the final pull of graveyard dust to the
crackling film.
i wonder what it's like
[i know nothing of science]
to be one of twenty cancaning sea-men,
wooden-limbed and glass
Literature
Sarcoid Dreams
Coagulative necrosis by 4pm
of excuses to stay –
Faking a mask-like face
so you can't see my heart break
at least three times a day.
Lonely haemostasis
under the surface.
Waiting for the second last factor
of the cascade – while again,
your mind is elsewhere.
Karyorrhexis before bedtime
suppuration collected –
tenderness both symptom and cure.
All I can see is you,
falling asleep without a care.
Cicatrisation left for tomorrow,
tiredness gratefully borrowed.
Those excuses, once again -
clutched to my chest.
The way I want you to hold me.
- - -
In my sarcoid dreams.
Literature
elephantasma
this is forgetting:
moon-drenched ivory, and grey flesh
made hollow with lead.
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Comments49
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i like the narrative-without-story design, interesting lines.