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Stryder
Poetry: 79
Art: 0 / Audio: 9
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1 Poetry
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bespoken.
in the way a thumb
under a breast speaks:..
let me mute this
heart from words.
groan enchantment,
such begging.
i seem to live in the throat of a devil
without hands and i have worn my skin for touch,
alone, when i cry to be the meaning.
this wanting that...
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..
.
you.ll be
flipping backward
again
fluttering
skipping beyond something
outside the locked in pavement
from the
face indistinguishable
of the churning cut off to itself
thrown out secrets turning into one name
unknown even to itself
like twisting arms trusted open handedly
as...
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..
....i give myself over
and over like the stars of kings
and their hallelujahs sung silver on bellies.
and i want to rest inside the ribs
of you who arch me.
listen... . . .
as midnight clears
and the magi we are whisper
. here. now.
listen. .. i am speaking.... so.. s..oft....
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between the alchemy
of winter and spark,
i must have been a girl
who smouldered long after you
warmed me and we could always find
our way back by the lasting light
of our flesh.
+
so we promised to stay naked.
and then we told the trees
we were going to burn them
as...
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select the ones
that get
to go
then carefully let
the others know
some are yes
become so no
ignore the shakes
by
hand or
body blow
draw many stones
upon a stone
pink suitcase miss
one small trunk
carriage throne
shoelaces one by one til
home come home
box be my home?...
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(sleep through the ever..
never again..)
Chimney.
It sticks
in your eyes
a home
with yellow roofs
silkworm.
your name
has no
hard edges
left
dreambeast.
a
single
bottomless
lung
our
frozen grass
thick blankets
bound
your...
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this is my girl's mouth.
the taste of rushing in.
the taste of worn skeletons,
graven fingers of deep unsayables and crushes.
intravenous love.. ..
this is my girl's mouth;
i keep the scores of your drifting here.
the months of starvations and derelictions.
and once, under my tongue, i...
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i quake
in the space a lullaby makes.
i return, to the air, the night
in a room of familiar apparitions
where my shape has been altered
imperceptibly.
gardenias in scarred water
scattered across the walls.
there is a texture that moves
between me and whatever i am
clawed from;...
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all day while air darkens,
she goes on painting the room white.
a woman holding a man to a promise;
it doesn't matter whether she is being held
........................tightly or not.
the moths drill holes
in her skin or try to, kisslight and carnal, nothing
quite as erotic as watching...
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skin and bones, we smile.
what dragons are to be vanquished in a sin not so.
but sewn into the fabric like dutiful maidens.
......and when i open the books,
love letters are sure to fall out and onto your lap.
we were never built for this, this dwindling.
... .... .....
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i sit inside out and dying
in my long limbs, tossed
over the back of a blackbird.
tell me about the winged creatures we are.
we were.
i cross my legs, fingers, toes.
sometimes my heart.
and you sit next to me.
you skim my skin.
it is the conversation of us that i...
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