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Deep Tissue Magazine 15

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Poets: Duane Locke Felino A. Soriano Neil Ellman Alan Britt Paula D. Lietz Evil Dick Andrew Scott A.g. Synclair Amit Parmessur Linda Crate

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Duane Locke
CONVERSATIONS OF A PROFESSOR OF COGNITIVE SCIENCE AND A PROFESSOR OF MATHEMATICS AT THE NOLI ME TANGERE BAR “I am trying to cleanse my body.” “What type of soap Do you use? How do you know what type of soap to use? There are many soaps. Can‟t try them all to find which will Benefit the radical singularity of your particular concrete Existence of uncleanness. How do you decide what soap Your apparent free will will choose? That is, if there is a will, And whatever the word “free” means. The concept of the Will might be just another human lie. Determinism might Be a counter lie. Everybody lives by lies. So how do you Select a soap. All advertisements are lies, traps, tricks To exploit. Think, all these advertisers that sponsor The junk and trivial that the slave mentalities, the people, Find to be their exciting entertainment and salvation are lies. “I am not talking about taking a bath.” “You‟re not.” “No. I am talking about a philosophical problem of Psychological exorcism. “Psychological exorcism!” “Yes, a deepening of my of unique and my universal Corporeality, which is a monism of a fused and

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Inseparable spiritual-physical, that has been derogated, Corrupted, and diminished by what was spoken into me By the popular parlance of people, my parents, my professors, My priest and above all, popular opinion--which is always Lies. I must exorcise what has been spoken into me By the majority. I must cleanse my body of these defects.” “Oh, now I understand. You are not going to take a bath, But are trying to rid yourself of all the false beliefs, and false Values spoken into you by your fellow man. “Well, Such things do not concern me. I lose myself Totally, fully, completely in the contemplation of mathematics. I am in a universe, a cosmos of bliss, and in this state of being, I know nothing about my defects, nothing about myself, I Know nothing about the lies my fellow men speak and love. I exist as a pure mind, and there is nothing else.”

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HIGHER EDUCATION: THE HOUR CALLED “EUDAIMONIC” AT A BAR NEAR A TAMPA UNIVERSITY “There must a million, over a million, Yes, over a million gods. “Really, you know I have never thought about how many Gods the human fantasy has invented.” “Over a million, Perhaps a billion. Think of all those many gods invented by Polynesians, Africans, Eskimos, Then there is the EasternWestern tradition…” I always liked the forest gods, Pan, Faunus, Priapus, Vidar. I liked Zoroaster too, not the Nietzschean Zarathustra, but the real Zoroaster. I like the mermaids, the Naiads. I often wished I were a Merman.” “Well as I was saying, Or was trying to say. In the Eastern-Western tradition, there Is El, Baal, Marmaduke, Atman, and hundreds more. It is said There were 800 gods in Mesopotamia. “ “You know that wine taster Was right, absolutely correct about rating Carpazo Brunello, 2005, 92, and Carparzo, 2006, 91” The two bottles of wine Mentioned sat at their table. Wine cost, $100 each bottle at this bar. “You are right about the wine. That wine taster was a genius, Right at the top of the bell curve. He must have an IQ of 200. My gustatory sensibility has had the empirical experience of tasting That 2006 is one-percent inferior to 2005. I verify the gospel Of this wine taster.” “So do I.” “A man with such a genius For distinguishing the axiology of wine, might with his intelligence

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Be qualified to distinguish if any one out of these billion gods Was real, actually existed, and were not just an invention Of us weak human beings‟ fantasy.” “Yes, he should.” “Let us write him and inquire.” “Yes.” “Yes, but I don‟t Know who this wine taster is. I was told about the test From a professor of evolutionary psychology” “The same with me, I learned about The wine tasting from hearsay.”

PROM NIGHT AND NEGRONI We, two graduates from Tampa High Schools sat In a private room at the bar. The room was decorated With reproductions of Aubrey Beardsley‟s illustrations For Oscar Wilde‟s Salome. We sat by the picture With the long strings of black ink dripping from the platter With John‟s head, and the black ink was supposed To represent blood. I asked her if she knew who This John was? She said she did not know, she had Never heard of him. The room was crowded, mostly Everyone drunk. Some were already passed out on the floor. Our prom was sponsored by a university To entice us to enroll for the less-than-mediocre education it sold.

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We were drinking a Negroni, with Vermouth, minus the gin, And I kept putting the glass in from of my eyes so I could Look at her through the rosy coloring of Campari. The rose Tint reddened the silver ring she had pierced into her nose. I was attired in New Denim, and she was dressed in a Carmen Marc Valuo, silver above and black below. We were discussing how the memes of this world might Have been different and certainly improved if Aristotle‟s Ousia Had not been translated in Latin as Substantia. She pointed out That Martin Heidegger has demonstrated that Aristotle was Not very skilled in Greek, or the student copy of his lectures Were not skilled in Greek. Yes, he agreed, and said, “If Aristotle had been more skilled in Greek, it might have Saved the world, for he would not have attached “Meta” To his second book on Physics. He would have called His book something like „A Deep Exploitation into Physics.‟ The whole Western world have been led into a truer Direction. And would not have separated the body from the soul, Mind from matter, or the physical from the spiritual. The word “Meta” mislead Western thought. There never Would have been that hideous philosophy of Descrates And the Scientist Configuration, if Aristotle had known Better than to use the prefix, “meta.”

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She became rapturous upon hearing these words of mine Leaned across the table, knocking over a glass of Negroni, And kissed him full and long on the mouth.

GELTON HANT, PROFESSOR OF PHYICS, FINDS SALVATION WHEN HE MEETS ANOTHER CAMPARI DRINKER IN A BAR ACROSS FROM THE UNIVERSITY “I love the way you have dyed your hair rose, It is the same color as Campari.” “It was mauve last week, a mauve trying to be pink.” “It was!” “Yes, I attended an exhibition of Whistler‟s paintings. I wore a black silk dress with peacock spots. My back bare.” “I can tell you this. I can sense you are not one of the slave mentalities, One of the hoi polloi. One of „the crowd,‟ as Kierkegaard Would call the fools. I can confess to you That I am a normal human being, being a normal human being Makes me greedy and endowed with a forceful desire To show off. But I can‟t find a single person, much less an audience, That will watch me show off.” “How Sad.”

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“In the class room, I tell dirty jokes, used the same vocabulary The students use, four-letter dirty words, but my students Never listen to me. They just read Cliff‟s notes. I am Finding it impossible to show off.” “How sad.” “I use to show off to my mom and dad. They would applaud loudly When I dressed in a tight pink suit, Would stand on an enormously large white ball and roll.” “How wonderful.” “But my mom and my dad are now dead.” “How sad.” “I once did a break dance in a shopping mall, But no one stopped to watch me. All were hurrying to sale of Vitamin E.” “How Sad. If you give me $200, I will watch you show off.” “Wonderful! We‟ll go to the motel on the corner. I‟ll go up to my office and get the large white ball. I‟ve kept the large white ball all these years. And then when we‟ll rent a room at the motel. I will stand on the large white ball. I no longer have the tight pink suit from my childhood,

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So I will stand naked. You can pretend that I am wearing the tight pink suit.”

A HYMN, A LAMENT, FOR WHAT ONCE WAS, SKIN AROUND STRA GONNE’S NAVEL Stra, my darling, my poetry reading last night At the Charles Bukoswki Coffee House of John Dryden‟s “Absalom and Achitophel” was so successful That I was inspired to write this poem, “A Hymn” To you Stra. The coffee house where I read Is a replica of a sixties‟ counter culture coffee house. Everyone had those special bright eyes of someone Who had taken an eye dropper and dropped LSD on their tongue. When I read the Dryden line “Down to the dregs of democracy,” The audience went wild with rapture. A boy and a girl, Underaged, illegal at this coffee house where whiskey Is sold, took off their clothes. My intense reading of Dryden„s line put the pair in ecstasy, and as I read the line, the couple was tossed in the air by the crowd. This “Hymn” of mine is dedicated to what was Once natural and untarnished, the skin around Your navel. I remember the beautiful indentation

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When we were naked on a bench in Al Lopez Park. The shadow of a cypress tree enhanced the texture. I contemplated this gorgeous skin around your navel In my dreams and in my MIT meditations, but know the skin Is obscured by a tattoo. The beauty of the skin Around your navel is gone. Oh Stra, why did Did you get drunk from inhaling vodka in Ybor City, and have this Tattoo, a Christmas holly wreath, put on your marvelous skin.

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Felino A. Soriano
Various Tessellations 29

—after Dave Douglas‟ November

Reactionary moments, the echoed bounce of cold unyet whole though

language of its preferential clarity underlines cold‟s various extensive paradigms as

fractals displays evening-soon, sooner

optimism against shallow swell of lake‟s ornamental ascending mathematical halos.

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Various Tessellations 30

—after Mark Turner‟s The Other Side of Time

Anecdotal sleep, persuasion-rest occupies bodily

reenactments

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physical fortunate fathoms amid fragile escalations

unanger optimal regurgitation of systematic movement

discarding tonal appositional frequencies of hope/hopeless

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founding amid fever‟s dissipating claws

and ornamental minings.

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Various Tessellations 31

—after Bobo Stenson‟s Pages

Because the garden lacks landscape, |wind‟s raking anger|

delineation the cluster retains warmth then watered dissolution, errant

fulcrum, broken at-leg pivotal indentation realization, turned or twirled containing method of fingering thus day as paginated revelation, persona

focus describes prose of hours‟ sufficient errors, erased by musical rippling (improvisation, here, the epitome of constant toward sustained ________)

listening the maneuver engages, curtailing temporal assignments‟

visceral compromise thorough degrees of rising

demonstrations.

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Various Tessellations 32

—after Paul Motian Trio‟s Blue Midnight

Exhaled mobilizations within leaves of shedding moments, shade unneeded between miracles and sounds of saddened tributes half among life against fractioned semblances, unrecognized, verbatim as the elder whose sporadic movement remembers youth and the pentagon of elation annunciating halos.

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Various Tessellations 33

—after Geri Allen‟s Flying Toward the Sound

following alternating manias of architectural transgressions. Radial fears transcend linear collocations

too, of error‟s momentary reaction negative thus negotiating fallacy, emotional

fragrance

transposes transcoded fellowships of rudimentary

murals

melancholy as mundane

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Neil Ellman
The Invisible Harp (after the painting by Salvador Dalí)

I , too, made music once murmurations of invisible strings tuned to dreams inside of dreams vibrations on the skin my harp grieved the melody it made on lifeless air the music came too soon and disappeared too soon my fingers having played their last while I lived on in silent pain.

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Visage of War (after the painting by Salvador Dalí)

Once only a boy full of himself assurance and patriotic songs grown old before their time his time eaten by worms where eyes should be the gape of war a mouth full of sacrifice the cries of dead and dying men once boys full of themselves no longer sing an anthem other than a scream.

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Elegy to the Spanish Republic, No. 35 (after the painting by Robert Motherwell)

Bombs whistled bloody black as they fell three at a time

a funeral dirge where nothing would ever grow or sound the same

again charred earth—

so much for resurrection in a requiem of blackened flesh.

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Covenant (after the painting by Barnett Newman)

Singular embodiment of the singular eternity defines its own place red perpendicular

motion in its space covenant irrevocable

passing through a sleepless night— truth like a river has no consequence.

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Alan Britt
MANNA

Pulverize the carrots, add beets, celery, kale, one organic apple and toss in a knuckle of ginger.

Guzzle the entire mix.

This juice will revive you from the dead, will merge you with the One so that you too can paint yellow suspenders down the black shoulders of a large grasshopper with round drops of rust for eyes.

This juice will allow you to hear tiny green bells shaken inside crucifixes by infants newly awakened in their cradles.

Indeed, this juice will sustain you through agony and doubt

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Oh, yes. I almost forgot. Make sure to include a wild poem as your holy biscuit with every cup of this marvelous juice.

GERONIMO’S CADILLAC

(They took old Geronimo by storm, and ripped off the feathers to his uniform. They stole his land, now they won’t give it back, and gave Geronimo a Cadillac.)

(--sung by Johnny Rivers --lyrics by Michael Murphy)

Geronimo squats on a rock overhanging a cliff in total darkness,

except for certain stars‟ dandelion threads crisscrossing the universe.

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Oh, now, take me back, I wanna ride in Geronimo’s Cadillac.

Later Geronimo sells his autograph at the St. Louis World‟s Fair, 1904, 25¢ a pop.

But, tonight, an icy southwest wind nips the Appaloosa flanks of an October moon

in Juarez, Mexico, as it always has and always will.

Oh, now, take me back, I wanna ride in Geronimo’s Cadillac.

Oh, now, take me back. I wanna ride in Geronimo’s Cadillac.

25 ODE TO GUILTY PLEASURES

Guilty pleasures row gondolas through the moon‟s unbuttoned nightgown rippling a canal‟s bare shoulders.

Cicadas and woodpeckers chatter.

Stars etch jellyfish light across an August sky.

Golden tomatoes moan.

Crickets, large drops of crude, take magnesium bites from dusk's humid torso.

ODE TO SILLINESS

All the birds of our neighborhood are here in my backyard, today.

They‟ve commenced a meeting of some kind and seem to be addressing their irritation at me

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If somehow I could discern their agenda, I might at least attempt to alleviate a modicum of their distress.

But, alas, they congregate and chatter incessantly, all at the same time.

It‟s like being married, for god‟s sake.

No wonder I don‟t understand one damn thing they‟re saying!

ODE TO CRACKER

My mother says he was a cocker spaniel, my brother says a beagle, but I‟m telling you Cracker was a full-blooded Irish setter!

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Each time retrieved with promise of collar and a tag.

But this dog had a legitimate sense he deserved better, starting with long, intimate walks and regular hours.

Not one to give up easily, my older brother pleads: Well, if this is the worst catastrophe our family ever has to suffer!

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Paula D. Lietz
Heart Flailing In darkness I reached too far yet not far enough laying bewildered under the boughs of the tree, looking up feeling broken a million pieces, by your lack of responseI don't understand this information highway, I just know its full of stop signs I was part of the storm, finding the strength to be but I, pulsating steadfast passion encouraging me to fly, the lesson being small steps need to be taken before flight I was determined to make the perfect snow angel body pressed agains the ground as sky and earth merged I laid there, arms, legs heart flailing

the length of my scars

euphoria, your surreal mania beyond enchantment sip of your essence and the reins fell from my hands whetting senses thought dormant

I've noticed there is no path, entwining enchantment amid cautious thoughts that nurture the ardor waiting ~ unfolding like fractals in mutual esteem

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shine with me your wisdom as I stumble a bit cry a bit laugh at errors and wonders accepting the journey where not knowing is the essence of being

pivotal twist of the stem, another realm a quantum surrender of unknown quantities losing myself deeply, immersed in this variable yes exploring the unknowns

I seek my reply by leaning into self-growth listening to it whisper, it's here within rejoice the day my passion intense will scream the length of my scars

If you Wanted

some say it's over I perceive we have just begun of this change upon change I sense the growing I consumed you yet never let you in sadly a roll played the theory proved false what do we do know you're unbearable tell me of this sensation that flows inside of me - inundated with denial no not me

30 immersed in this one moment exploring the unknowns holding onto nothing as nothing does not exist - so you say if you really wanted me you would find a way

Crash of the Waves

I claimed it as mine this peace upon the seashore and laid upon the memory of you , listening to the roll of the waves

I watched the wavelets as the engulfed today to become the future beyond my control - it was then beyond that moment that I knew I was the worn smooth pebble dropped, creating a ripple

vulnerable and open I tasted your ebb and flow as I birthed your rhythm, knowing it was never my dance but one with all within this droplet of life

incessant ocean hurled her waves upon the shore thrashing foam and inlets wet clothes clinging - oh god the awful clinging I and they discarded, a need to be naked

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I lay upon the grit of the sand warm from the sun phantom kisses placed here and here the music of your hand a simple seduction one trace of your finger brings me to life

I thirst to sup the wine from your lips revelling in the pleasure of your tongue a slow gyration how can one be lost in the moment when it is the only place I prefer to be my senses never more aware

roll after roll the crash of the waves

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Evil Dick
cannibals

my worst dreams always center on cannibalism still i find myself sitting on plates near cutlery well basted and believing in the communion of saints the redemption of the complacent . it is all about commitment choosing the right tattoo paying for the skin graft again . young smiles beaten flat submission to the lost the voices outside the window prove the descending slope the mastery of self and invasive chemistry add to the terror the view from the platter . i shake my head i acknowledge the additive symmetry the remembrance slice by slice some parts stay guarding rome while it burns all matters as individual waves reflexive tragedy

33 in reflected circumstance . sweet nothing gravy makes its own sauce and the meat at the bottom of the pan always tastes best slaking curiosity by the fork full

blessed be

the kindred know this night‟s passing will not be sweet the complete peril brought by this fading this margin crossed where no light escapes the hounds all abed jack rabbit dreaming of midsummer morning save for those which walk with the devil until church bells strike calling the faithful to remember disbelief the disregard the kindred know meaning arrives departs returns all on the same wind the kindred know to bless all things all of it

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pieces of silver

time‟s path each toll greater the last obscene more insidious nostalgia conquers painting sunshine where dreary corners should be carving ham out of soapstone administering tincture of iodine drops of morphine on one‟s best forgotten memories

00011011

near infinite empty halls ring cupping the hushed voices the vermin the parasites the vultures of court the anticipated cry the man is dead heads snap to sides allegiances forged glances etched scrimshaw hard lines drawn to complete a picture the new order

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still water

hand carved children play spontaneously as directed he waits with unsettling calm wrapped in brown paper on his lap along side stray hairs from a long dead cat his hand is free to loosen ties adjust hats ascertain the validity of sunset the package tied with sisal whispers delicate obscenities only to be spoken between lovers tears gather but retreat finding no path until whistles blow children gather and the street lights come on

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Andrew Scott
Awake

Tired, laying down, body so tired, needing the sleep of never never land, falling between realms, feeling nothing but misty air, rising from underneath me, somehow massaging, pinching, pulling, small scrapes.

Out of the foggy darkness, an unholy shadow comes towards me, dressed in tight, shiny black, slowly hovers over me, skin is twitching, tingling, eyes so hypnotic, staring when her body touches mine, feels like she crawling into me, muscles moving involuntarily, soft scratches opening,

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feeling the blood leaving, body lowering into the mist, joining past bones she is leading me too, heart slows to a stop, takes my hands into hers, leads me to my final resting place, feeling my death, nothing has never made me feel so awake.

Ghost Dance

The low muffles of a hypnotic dance, days of slow movement towards resurrection, cleansing by renouncing temptation, voices of the tribes were the only instruments, bringing back the Indian dead of yesteryear, a time of family and rejoice not mourning, sharing in the belief of the prophecies of tomorrow.

The prophecies of tomorrow were what lead to slaughter, the hands of the white that had bullets of fear,

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fear of the ghost dance, shirts of the unknown, extinguishing what they did not understand, bringing fathers, mothers, and children to silence.

I stand out and look at the plains, think of the unthinking minds of the past, my ancestors that did not understand, the slow singing and chanting of peace, the hope for a tomorrow executed, I stare at the embers of the dead fire of innocence, and cry for the forgiveness of the lost ghosts of dance.

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A.g. Synclair
DECEMBER IN THREE PARTS I Just east of the Gallatin, we cling to little nuggets of time. A bone in the ear reminds us that Christmas will be different this year, spending money we don't have on whiskey we shouldn't drink. II Outside the kitchen window two sparrows fought to the death. A few broken quills and a dying declaration that there is no god, from two young sparrows, dead, in a tangle of frozen leaves. You try to imagine why they fought. Probably over another sparrow. I suppose love is hard, even for a bird. III There is a story behind everything. Behind boulders. Behind stars. Behind endless miles of fence posts. The men here smell like fish. The women here live in the space in between. We are all once removed from small degrees of separation, from the Bridgers, from the Big Sky and beyond. The natives saw you coming from a thousand miles away. They are desperados. They know how you tore your shirt.

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Amit Parmessur
Frog Hunting As if he’d thrown his toned body into the lush grass, like a lame stone flying. To see those muscular thighs— what if he were to land on our nose! I had to ask myself why he should dangle on that mossy rock like that. He was intimidating. See, see if you understand the watercolor stripes he’s proudly sporting. The burn in his throat, I see nothing more mighty. You care nothing for his youthful eyes that plead for a life smooth as your favorite Kraft Cheese? Wife, abandon this frog. I am not a seasoned hunter— let’s chase something else. I’m just a few meters from him— Wake up, big frog. I’m holding the blue bucket, running, like a mad crab towards him. As if he would plunge into the sound of the dull water now!

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There I go. There he goes.

Where I Find Love I find my love from the dust on the windowsills, from the blackened flowers in a garden behind my favorite bench. If this vast sky can see itself in a puddle, why cannot I see my beloved in the sky? The human tongue is never tired to spell love. I find my love from the whispers of holy silence. If you play with love fire jets out and burns the whole stable. Drawing scars on dead love stories is useless. The cops won’t arrive and arrest you for changing your name one morning because of love. I find my love from a tireless, tiny river flowing over unknown lands.

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Starfish What’s that, Starfish! Fulsi. Fulsi. Fulsi, stella. Why are you stuck to this old pole? Why have you been tossed onto this cheap pier by a heartless, blind fisherman? Fulsi. Fulsi. The sun is up, and the tide’s going out. You’ll die, Starfish. You are still fire. That’s what I see, in your keen eyes. You are water. That’s what I see, plentiful, in your future. You are earth, like everyone else. You don’t want to be just a handful of air right? How can you be a doomed traveller, so early, on this infinite horizon? I know, you are stubborn and won’t let anyone pick you up and gently throw you into the ocean. There are millions of starfish gone astray. Make a difference, by saving yourself— Come on Starfish! Shake yourself again into symmetry. Rejuvenate your hundreds of tiny feet, with the brave boots of a second life— it’s now, or never ever. Come, however or whoever you are, let’s make the sea rocks the roundabouts of risky adventures. Let’s hide in the stone pockets, dream madly under the tide’s rough lip. Sing beautiful, little Starfish! Look at the light in the ocean above and sing. Cantare. Cantare, stella. Cantare.

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Fantasies I sit on the tip of fragrant, evening pines. I breathe the clouds. A train often whistles, with a fountain of flowers flying. I see myself jumping out, with the pure piano of dreams escorting my dance. I know if I have received the phone call of tomorrow I shall receive the voice of tomorrow too. At night I envy the stars. I see red tongues in the rocks that talk secrets to me. I nourish a myriad of illegal feelings by the window. Death is ugly. The death of dreams is uglier. I know out here, there’ll be another way to be. To forget philosophy I sleep on the windowsill.

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The Moon’s Paramour There was rain last night. I stood in the middle of the road, holding a red umbrella. I looked in one direction, then the other. I did not see your light. There is no rain tonight. O Moon of mine, creamy as newborn, lost lambs— never have you been nearer to earth! I am the happiest lark around, seeing you after so, so long. I wish I could pluck you and make love with you in my poor pocket. I will be old with the scars of your face etched into me. I will give even your shadow a name.

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Linda Crate
scarred you haunt me in scars — they are pearly like moon tears yet cling like moss; I cannot just discard them as easily as the trash I am forced to look into the heart of them and face the music that entrench me in — they carry a sad lilt to them like a star in mourning I see a falling bright beam of lantern shattering to the earth; a shooting star that overshot it‟s aim, I am your vestibule you pour in all your lies and all your truths; I cannot tell where I end and you begin, I am a sea of guilt and regret, embalmed in your silver fog.

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anger of a woodmer I am the mermaid of wood painted on your ship, you do not pay me any mind as we fly through the adventurous sea, seeking riches and the mayhem of pirates; I am not appreciated or even cared for — just one of these days, just one I will pry my frame from you and slip into the sea, my oak will become the sinew of flesh; I will flash harpy teeth and become a siren in my rage; you will regret never talking to me or knowing me as you should.

died among the lilies I laid in a field of poppies, you poured your white wine lies into my mouth daintily; I chewed the grapes slowly — you drenched me in ecstasy of euphoria and desire, I felt a twinge of pain when you left me here in these blooms —

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I never wanted to be possessed by anyone in the world but you; you left me stranded in the inky black ocean of deceits sorrow, I laid myself to die among lilies.

to: the goblin king my soul is filled with trepidation whenever you come around, I feel fingers prying into my soul without meeting your gaze; I know you can see through me as if I‟m transparent — you make me uncomfortable in my own skin; you make me itch from the inside out, in places I didn‟t know could itch like inside my fingers; or in my very veins, you wash sorrow onto me more quickly than the rain can nimbly wash it away; every time you come around you erode me piece by piece; you‟re killing me with hands of the ocean, and I am going numb — but mark my words, one day, when I‟m stronger, I‟ll send you back to hell where you belong; you will no longer have any more power over me, your handsome face

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will be withered like autumn roots in winter.

cut by apathy

loneliness thinks of me too often; melancholy settles in my brow far too oft, they snatch at me when my joy is lilting ever closer; I shove them away for a while, but always return — I have cried all the tears my soul can hold; I have been dashed upon the rocks as many times as I can stand, I don‟t want to face that place again; hope seems to be an illusion singing on wings that I can never dream of catching; happiness a delusion that only exists in movies, the warmth of love a salve washed away years ago; weathered by time against me, I have cried tears that aren‟t my own, I only wish — that I can breathe again on my own terms; that one day I will remember the topography of a smile, that autumn‟s golden laughter will wash a new wave of joy over me that cannot be washed away in the rains of maudlin and cynicism that cut me to my very soul‟s core.

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