A horse snorting wildly at the slightest slither;
we are natural enemies, ankle-biting snake against
fetishized freedom, all hair. You pepper-eating poets
seduce me every time. Against my character, might
I add: My nostrils are as dilated
as they've ever been, to detect the slightest hint
of movement from you, a stirring and then
the anatomy of the thing will emerge.
Laundry List: Please buy
Tide, the catalogue of the human soul,
self-cutting. You might crumple up the writing
and swallow it like a spy,
but burning toast is no career, my friend. Perhaps
that bitch poetry is a necrophiliac, never letting dead
archetypes sleep. Yes, I know that Helen has launched
ships from: Vietnam, world wars, the Midwest,
which is landlocked. But you cannot kill the
fat-fingered fairies, the delicate forms. Rapunzel,
Rapunzel, let down your standards! I will give you
a dose of your own medicine, and like a cancer
the poem will grow and swell, and the entrance fee is:
matted dog fur, stillborn niggers, pickled torsos in the bath.
But let us discuss the many ways in which humans
hurt. Cuts, burns, scorned loves, shocks to systems heavy with
pathogens. Your mother. That vase. I am in your
thrall, pepper-eaters, with all trimming and none of the -
what do I care? Unrealized possibilities are the most
seductive thing there is, and it's interesting
when people scream and strip and die. Particularly
in one so young, and all the high ideals in the Dakotas
don't stop burnt toast - like unrequited love, the intention
is to feed: and it is small, silver, hard, but it chars. The stink
on your hands and in your hair. Windows opened,
curtains flung, wars won. A blackening of purpose
and then an absence of sound:
and in the morning, it's still there.














Comments
pickled torsos in the bath. (pickled torsos in "a" bath?)
thrall, pepper-eaters, (thrall, you pepper-eaters, --?)
seductive thing (be better than the word "thing". personally i see the word "scathe" sitting in there nicely.)
when people scream and strip and die. (strip to die?)
and all the high ideals in the Dakotas
don't stop burnt toast
( -- I am not sure this is said the right way. instead of "stop" could you maybe say "reverse?")
and it is small, silver, hard, but it chars (i was questioning the use of the semicolon there, but i like it but i think 'but it chars' could be shortened nicely into 'but chars.'
The stink
on your hands and in your hair. -- i think 'your' could be removed.
wars won. A blackening of purpose
and then an absence of sound:
and in the morning, it's still there. ( 'then the absence of sound?' )
i was questioning whether wars won was ok or whether 'wars were won' was better. i figure you had it right the first time.
totally explosive poem, adah. platha.
--
"I've taken enough walks alone
to know how real nothing is."
~dystopian-dream-girl
unconstructive comment!
--
"The ending is brilliant. Seriously. I might get that inscribed on my casket someday so God will understand."
Thank you very much for your kind words!
Thank you so, so much for critiquing. I adore you all the more!
thank you!
--
"I've taken enough walks alone
to know how real nothing is."
~dystopian-dream-girl
--
The truth is, Jesus was black, Ronald Reagan was the devil, and the government is lying about 9/11
-Huey, Boondocks ep 1
Give a man something to hate, and he will love you. Give that same man something to love and he will hate you.
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