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Tag Archives: writing on writing
they haunt without love or forethought, caught only in the un-clacked black of their white-sheet skins.
we outta here with our pens and our plans and our cramped-up hands and our scrib-bled dreams. these syllables are our last gasps and death-rattle rasps of lyric, lung and ripped-at-stanza seams. this means our scribbles are all scrabbled out, and there’s no doubt … Continue reading
and we find ourselves falling into its pages tucking ourselves between stanzas as silk pillowcases. two days later we’re still here three sheets to the (whirl)wind drunk on phrase for another four days. gimme fiveminutes and i’ll tell you each rhyme-and -rhythm’d tale, … Continue reading
play magnetic poetry here.
.. don’t stand down -wind of this poem; she’ll blow ……………..(her top) you away with her intricate spin. she’s in -sane, deranged and estranged from her own phrase. she’s lost her power somewhere between the devil and the deep blue … Continue reading
.. she’s neither new nor wow, but she makes it some -how. breathes. believes. listens to the trees. pens imperfect poems. .. In November, we poem.
.. this poem may be habit-forming, causing the need to read others, wrestle pen. it’s a gateway scribble, really, that first taste of rhythm-rhyming zen you didn’t know you needed. to breathe. a smudge of sky. a wisp of why. … Continue reading