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floundering coffee bean.
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Castle
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curling up to nap
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we don't desire
i am really tired. some people here have flown to australia and vice versa. i've seen people come in and out rooms, unsure of the reasons why they came. they fold their hands, unfold, straighten the buttons on their shirt and clear their throats nervously. they wait and the things they want do not appear like the moon when you need it. it is always hanging off somebody's elbow, winking back at you as you pass them on the street. i wonder if you'd ever be mine. because we want beautiful things, unaware that our words leave them strung up in the air
Handragon
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First Episode: SIR POPE WALRUS
First Episode:  SIR POPE WALRUS and the SEAL CONSPIRACY Walrus was displeased. Even though his knighting and Papacy had been acknowledged that morning-granting him the noble title of Sir Pope Walrus (the Male Walrus)-nothing could cheer him after this horrific occurrence: not even his father's Austrian strudel. The Seal Storage Center (a.k.a. SSC, sometimes confused with the Salivating Symphony Crab restaurant, where Sir Pope Walrus's kin played tubas and then ate crabs) had been broken into the previous evening- when he was eating a celebratory dinner after his title bestowment. There were no seals left, and seals were Sir Pope Walrus's
water man
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Natalie
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flight formation
after Henry Fuseli's "The Nightmare" grayscale eidolons weave through the hot air, streamlined by her deep breaths; her crabbed fingers crimp the sheets closer, letting night linger in their creases. curtains part for a mare shifting through, point-blank eyes seizing a tear in her mind-space, dragging out a meager evil; split phantoms' grins sway to sing her to terror, seeking her thought-feathers:  snare them, tear them. but now they seek her past-tense sin--the blood she drew, the swart words she cast-- that seeps over her skin, lighting her crimes. the demons flicker, the gray mare's gaze fenced on dust lifting from
T
The Herald
after Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself" I float with dust, swirling through time-gaps of international clocks. I drift through cities, I touch the black 70-point text of old New York newspaper headlines and fit myself into editorials. I glide through the conservatory, comparing elevator music with music made by a 7-year-old training to be the next Mozart. I hear sounds made by the old man outside lips to his harmonica, playing for spare change. And I give myself to this, the rhythm of the city. The rusting pendulum of my soul-clock, swinging back-and-forth, scatters piecemeal remnants of my spirit: I flit through golden w
True Romance
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iron workers
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There is a note for me playing hide-and-go-seek in between the wall and the hotel bed, but the author is done playing and driving home because continuing after losing is too hard, people are still breathing and posing for photographers, popping balloons, asking for names or numbers and living, and sometimes life would be so much easier if they didn’t, if the world stopped the way a clock doesn’t tick after it’s dropped off a balcony, lying there as a small jumble of twisted metal and wooden splinters, a cracked face with fingerless hands and all blessedly, gloriously still.
WINSTON
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A Distant Figure
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two prostitutes
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Hold Yourself Together
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Home and the Fairies
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World War Two: Simple Version
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