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Tag Archives: writing on writing
(a sonnet variation called a “duplex”) :: I am a swirling alphabet storm. Nobody knows the order of this chaos. The order of chaos is unknown, even to me. The key is making sense of all the spaces in between. The … Continue reading
it’s only once (maybe twice) in a blue moon that we know what we’re doing. we of the viole(n)t fingers. we of the ivory page. we scrape our inky stripes and cage our own roared voices into petaled phrase in hopes of taming heart. we start withthorn and scratch our … Continue reading
I shall not dance for you today, not on fins nor on siren’s sails. Not on confused muse mirrored lake, nor these damned pages. These quills hold porcupine stingand no lasting high,and I am tired. Even the syllables of my own name taste like dust. I’ve … Continue reading
And I couldn’t tell, if anyone here was feeling the way I doBut I’m lonely now, and I don’t know howTo get it back to good– Matchbox Twenty she is approximately 751 days behind the eight ball the last call the deadline that fine line between … Continue reading
this poem is its own special kind of hell. you can’t tell because it just keeps un-raveling, but it’s rapidly traveling too far south. it’s opened its inky mouth and now it can’t stop spewing phrase. you’d be amazed by how many days she can ramble on and … Continue reading
she’s cold,sitting here with all these (unlocked) keys, and could someone please turn down the music in the hall? she’s all thumbs (and frankly they can’t type) and she’ll never live up to the hype of her own design. fine, she’ll clack a black line or two. see? there’s … Continue reading
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