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the gospel of a postage stampsend me a letter, mail it to france
complain of your heart's ailments and
the night terrors that keep you awake
on the couch at night, tea and honey in hand
send france a piece of paper or two
letting me know all the reasons you've cried
the shores of brittany hold redemption in their promises
your sweet disposition will take you far, if only
you let me hold your hand on the way there
mail me a letter, send it to france
we'll get lost in the post together
sticking stamps to our foreheads
our hearts will collapse into addresses
and i can sing, tremblingly,
"oh, it is both beautiful and easy
to be you."
a singing potatoand all the bells, they sang and cried
and all the bells, they sang and cried
and all the bells, the sand and cries
you took me down, to hell and back
on sooty, roughened, ponyback
a mouth, a kiss, a sharp thumbtack
lovely girl, born of mud and spit
halo polished, dirty wit
all she wanted was decrepit
do love love love
all the king's horses and all the king's men
all the king's horses and all the king's men
all the king's whores and all the king's phlegm
the blood she drinks:
a bitter wine
spell me a friend
and buy me
to talk to me sleep
when mom is
couldn't keep out the tolling the bells
quasimodo he haunts me he tells me it's hell
i wish i listened
i loved until
hi, mr. capps.i am sitting in math class writing poems.
tastes like irony.
you keep talking in circles and lines
numbers sleeping on grids like broken down cars
something about plugging in and solving to give them the right direction again
it's like sleeping in math class
dreaming of poems
my pen is making up strange things
answering questions that you already know
(irony in ink)
i don't know what i'm talking about. not at all.
only this simple phrase
something about circumferences and radiuses
talking to me, making some small piece of sense in the lines of
"the opposite of the center is the circle".
august seventh hated meyou are in a room
a room with windows and doors
where the windows are shut and the door is closed and by god it is.
so dark outside.
outside of this room is a home
or a house
today it's a house
it is filled with furniture and food
everyone is sleeping in their rooms and dreaming.
you are laying in bed with your mouth shut and screaming.
you look for real laughter and pleasure and joy
but you only see objects, clothes and old toys
like a word repeated over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over they lost meaning and look back at you blankly asking how things came to this and when exactly did you open the doors and windows to let all the sad faces and demons in you don't like them but by god they love you and sometimes they tell you that this doesn't mean anything and you can wake up if you just
lay down and don't wake up
loved youit was like living inside and remember that there was more
more than dirt and my small hands
there was you, who lived above and you who knew of the sky and grass and you who found me and i who
lines for juliajulia is special
a wedding bell, who brings
soft music and fancy candies to the world
julia is kind
made of cotton and silk
sleeps in and doesn't ever go out past eight
julia is good
i would probably stay up past eight
and write her poems while she dances and dances in italy
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More