Archive for the Odd Category
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Everyone Owns a Scar

Sometimes, quite times
The swinging pendulum
and rivers running
Blood rushing
Under the skin, growing hard
Rough. Marked. Tough scars.
These are the life lines
We write about, talk about
Show others, one another
The life lines
Of time, ticking time
Ticking by.
A story, known only
By the bearer, the wearer
The perfect thing,
Before the first years
Perfect skin
Soft, gentle
A trip, a stumble,
A cut, a burn
We accept, unchangeable
This harsh contrast
And there comes the pain
Onto oneself, or
A gift from another
Received
Always remembered
When it marks,
Perfect skin, now only
A perfect memory
We remember the way
It used to be, before
the line was made
The swinging pendulum
And the rushing river, crossed
Sometimes, quiet times
We think of all we’ve lost.

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Rumblings (From The Book of Minx)

This love – hot and crazed
He says, “Don’t look at me that way.
I don’t care for that death stare.”

Endless
I could write all night
But to dance all night
Requires the keep
of endless sleep
After the play
After today
Before the occur.

She shouts
Far out!
My stockings
are cutting off
the circulation
To my pussy.

Sleepy Minx
likes to jinx her good fortune
with the obscurity of her
Possession
an Obsession unto itself
damaging all
Rumbling, tumbling
collecting all in its way
Leaving the hard
Hard to leave.

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Sleep cannot hide you

Dreams of the Paper Woman, again
Pale face, dark wispy hair
And dead, raven-like eyes
A red slash, her mouth
Tall, long hanging arms
And long, sharpened nails
All in black, her bones protruding
She turns to her side
And folds herself under the door
Folds like paper, the Paper Woman
She hides in a shadow; a crease
And waits until you’re in the room
A locked room
Slips out of a crack
And starts unravelling
Until she is tall, again
Cold, musing eyes
And scratching her nails
Against the floor
Toward you, backing up
Backing up

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