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anorexic's lament

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anorexic's lament

my lover crushed the budding fruit in me which ran from out my legs like currant wine – that sweet unwelcome blood of atrophy sat red upon her tongue as muscadine. her cup full up she turns her gaze to flesh to take from me her pound, then two, then five; to rake thin fingers cross the scalp and thresh my hair, like wheat, to pay some holy tithe and clutch me like a candle through the night. at morning light she pinches out the wick: she spends me, bends me down as acolyte to altars where her ash has settled thick     in lungs and throat and shallow-thrumming heart,     where all my lover’s love rends me apart.

Sonnet XXIX: An ending

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Sonnet XXIX: An ending

The world bent towards the end I would have written then like a harp-string snapped—the twisted threads unwound, and all sprung back to what we had been now I am gutted—and you, I think, are dead. What use are harps when vaunting horns of silver proclaim the world has ended; what for me is left amongst the ruin and raging rivers of blood and ash, and every tie cut free? And yet—when your song wound through empty halls and through your melodies all was reclaimed I loved it then; that strain; its dying fall-- but tunes are lost, and only words remain. Yes, only words remain. I cannot write the wonder in your song—the

The Sorrow of the Leaves

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The Sorrow of the Leaves

The light, decanted by the leaves - 'tis diffused, A scattering barely seen from the ground; Perhaps the greed of a few, who were crowned By the light are blessed; the rest refused This need... Could be a thought - or a ruse: The leaves that are in the shadows still live; They manage themselves, the Sun need not give Any importance for their needs: disuse Has made them adapt to their surroundings. Just as a child who accepts the darkness, The leaves survive.  And for this, adapting To what we think as Fate wrought in sadness, They are like their roof above: their callings Understood; more than us, who see far less.

Writer's Block Sonnet

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Writer's Block Sonnet

Her feet are wearing holes in the carpet While she paces 'round and 'round with a scowl Apparently her book gives her a fit And no one dares to talk to her at all Her fists are clenched and waving through the air Making gestures no one can understand She has been pacing several hours there Immersed in some issue that is at hand Her eyes stare off into some unseen world As if she is squinting at a wet page The ink has run and everything is blurred Her eyes too tired to read it in her rage But then! some idea strikes her at last I never knew that she could run so fast.

Bedroom Promise

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Bedroom Promise

Mosquito, you have played your final game If it was you, directly in my ear an hour before the midnight bell, for shame I'll have you know, if you should reappear: for you I'll find my doll-house guillotine A mini-vampire hunter track you down to stick your dripping noggin, most obscene upon the palisade of doll-house town There's no rest for the wicked, sucker, see my bloodhound-dogged zeal is no pretence No Venus flytrap that one needs to be? Or at your earliest convenience go find a fire to die in, flying louse (preferably outside the house)
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