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Literature Text
Suppose each one of us older than the stars,
suppose that we are other than the ragged beggars we seem,
suppose that our engulfing slumber, our inner darkness,
is constantly erupting with the vanity of dreams.
Consider those uncounted aeons swallowed in the oceans
of that virtuality, where we, the ever drowning mariners,
must cling to the absurd shapes we call reality.
Will we, unknowing captives, ever be free?
Has liberty become our cage of captivity?
Oh yes, we writhe, our nakedness become despair.
as our frenzied touching reveals that nothing's there.
suppose that we are other than the ragged beggars we seem,
suppose that our engulfing slumber, our inner darkness,
is constantly erupting with the vanity of dreams.
Consider those uncounted aeons swallowed in the oceans
of that virtuality, where we, the ever drowning mariners,
must cling to the absurd shapes we call reality.
Will we, unknowing captives, ever be free?
Has liberty become our cage of captivity?
Oh yes, we writhe, our nakedness become despair.
as our frenzied touching reveals that nothing's there.
Literature
Hollowdays
Shortened dim days and long starless nights
The wellspring, the windchimes, the starlings
Are gone
Dreary tunes about razorblades, and ash, and bone
The lost man's song, the October sonata
The walkingman shoeheels clack empty sidewalks
Past blank storefronts and soapsmeared windows.
Summer is a distant fire, muted by mist, fog,
Coldbreath
Hollow days are here again.
Literature
Z
3:23, the nothing time when sound and motion are as frozen as the outworld
I have something to say, damn it. I can't say it.
My thoughts line up to jump off of a cliff and into the infernal Nothing
Even my dreams have dissipated in cigarette smoke
3:23 AM, my cigarette keeps going out as I hold it forgetfully, inattentive
It has to be lit when I have a cup of coffee going cold in front of me
I try to write something clever and surreal, a map that follows my emotions
From Point A to Point Z, and all points in between
But I always start with Z
Black clowns in a suicide car pull up outside, whispering my name
If I don't go, they'll beg
Literature
memoire
bruises line her arms
like dark lilies in the spring
awaiting rainfall
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