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Lovers

I just came here for a quiet drink,
It’s not my fault I’m the same size and shape 
as a punching bag.

I just came here for a quiet drink, 
it’s not my fault I’m the same size and shape 
as your mother, 
or that you always wanted to 
kiss her,
or that you were always afraid of 
your father. 

I just came here to drink, 
so leave me alone. 

I felt wrong ever since someone told me
it all gets better from here,
and I was taught to be a lover, not a fighter
but I misread and learned to fight with my lovers. 

I just came here for a drink,
I can’t help it I’m the same size and shape
as a football,
and you were kicked around a lot 
in high school,
poor soul. 

You survived so well,
poor soul.
You’ve been through hell, 
poor soul. 
Don’t let them tell you you’re not whole,
poor soul. 
But is this really what you want,
sympathy and lager on tap?
I think it’s time to man up, 
and I’d tell you it all gets better from here
poor soul. 

But I just came here to drink, 
so leave me alone. 

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Context Collapse

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Anticipation speaks in silent glances

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new moon on monday (or, change is the same)

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Mor(t)al

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Like sand under running water (title by Vance - rankandfiledostoevsky)

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theoretically incorrect.

Slowly transmigrating 
from

this form : from this form : from this

into the          notional;
becoming little more than theory

you are odiously attempting
to disprove // rebut // to yourself.

Beleaguered by your voice: 
your voice in your words
your voice on my name
your voice -

I am roaming around the
                                e-d-g-e-s

of

[am I seeing you 
or am I only seeing what you 
want me to see?]

[sic]

[am I another question 
or are you attempting to 
answer me?]

answer me.

The indubitable truth about this
exiguous odyssey is this,

I am no 
et cetera, et cetera, et cetera

I am an impulse,

but clearly only in theory.

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Some Fictions

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Locus Amoenus

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transmogrification.

curating consolation in heaving breaths
  between your whiskey lips
                 your honest kiss
the cigarette you used to light the fire
somewhere in my soul

           - - light - -

flick – flick – flickering

we are not hoping on the ochre metamorphosis
of sunshine into the extortion of black stars 
and                       “daydreams”

we are

forgetting, forgetting, forgetting ? something ?

between the sharp inhales of poetry & 
the swallowing of deeply satisfying literature

we are

remembering bronzes of falls we took 
to win the gold,

the gold ensconced in an impressionistic age
of flaming grooves – groovy yeah?

this rose by this name tastes sweet on the
smooth fissures of your lips

            those doggone lips

thorning = thorny

your name on my mind rattling like bottles 
Glenfiddich:

hissing towards euphoric propulsions
handcuffing an elated Narada;

you are the crackling music of the fire
inside my breathless whisper

beg…beg…begging

come closer!

fill me with your whiskey breath 
your nicotined lines -

light me : : burn me : : extinguish me

rain over me until I become a map 
of places your hands have been.