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Silence Exile and Crumpets
 
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Tuesday, May 10th, 2016

Time Event
12:36a
New poem
DEATHLESS

All writers are imaginary friends
who whisper in my ear, throw shady looks
over my verse and prose. And move dark rooks
castle my lines with unexpected ends.

Each other's muses when the muses sleep
engaged in sly erotics of shared soul.
Die maybe done or not. The bells that toll
new measure of how reputations leap

to classic or remaindered as obscure
and then return allusions make us smile
echoes that linger. Always for a while
long life perhaps but deathless is unsure

My mortal colleagues voices in my head
may I too linger somewhere when I'm dead.
12:50a
And another
FOR PATTI SMITH

She goes on living working. On her skin
age verse grief love write complex telling lines
beauty transmutes remains deceiving signs
laughter's own creases change them. And within
she feels sixteen but tired. Late night sweat
lust for his ashes to regenerate
wishes to sleep aches it's so very late
her flight's at dawn. Wants several minutes yet
of memory of muscle at her back
arm curve that gave a backbeat to a song
so young she has been singing it so long
crow caws pearl note. But no one hears the lack
she hears it mourns it welcomes every loss.
Art the skilled throw the hazard wily toss.
12:59a
And an older one that I never posted because it was too raw at the time
GODLIKE

Godlike he holds her hand. She smiles. Salt tears
Headhearthurts. So you write it in a song.
They're dead. You too. The poem lasts so long
I'm yelling at you from three thousand years.
She's smart. She doesn't shriek your name aloud
at awkard moments. Sometimes quotes your verse.
He asks about you. Her replies are terse.
Smiles thinking he's not looking smiles are proud.
He sort of gets it. That first night he caught
your glance, your swift departure. Treats her kind;
comparisons are always on his mind.
you're competition still. If jealous thought
caroms around your brain like iron wheels,
You're fucking Sappho, bitch. Think how he feels.
11:34p
There's this weird clip on YouTube
NIETZCHE'S TOMB

In that last film he's nothing but a glare
face locked fools gold where once those brilliant eyes
torn paper folded brow was once so wise.
His own abyss looks out in that blank stare.

Something was not quite working in his brain
one day. He'd hardly noticed it before.
Thoughts burn to sudden chaos and his jaw
so slightly twitches. Nothing. No great pain

says why. Throws arms around a weeping horse
whipped in the street. So much he cannot save.
Perhaps it's kinder would be brave.
Where do they come from anger and remorse?

Lost in himself he never laughed or cried.
Was dionysus lord the crucified.

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