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the endThe world is still, the ground is soft The hills are flat and the rubble steep; The dirt is pulp, the trees are stems And the water is warm and deep.the end
Her hand was soft and lily clean When fast she drew them to her chest And held them aloft: my will was taut It was, I told her, for the best. She did not smile but said 'I know' And told me I was right. She cut their stitches and snipped their bows With fingers chalky white; And dropped their screaming kicking limbs Into the mouth of madness; And I stepped forth to take my turn A sidestep of their sa
by ~julian-crowley
distancia a correrdeja me deja te dejas me dejo aunque los dejamos - dejarondistancia a correr
cuando estarías descendiendo cuando estarías cayendo - cuando estaría descendiendo cuando estaría descendiendo - cantarías (cantaríamos) cantaría la cancíon desesperada: aunque Neruda me diga, "el amor la pena, el polvo en los Rios", allí, allí me digo, "el amor la pena, los huesos de Dios"
son rotos - las puertas están abiertas - me digas, me digas &n
by ~julian-crowley
svenkmajer aliceThe tea turns the sides of the white cup a steady rust: a little girl, holding a globed cheek in one hand, tosses dark pebbles into the small reservoir. Clink, goes the china, and Alice yawns.svenkmajer alice
Scratching one leg her pink knee sock climbing lazily downward; her feet in black shoes, patent leather. The dead rabbit in the glass case jerks and twitches - And takes out the spike pinning his foot to the cork.
The hole is long; jars full of specimen and flora and fauna, and bones and garlic, corpses and oil, &nb
by ~julian-crowley
whoretangled wretch, drowned like leaves beaten and tattered into slush; strangled bird cries beneath wire a frumious frothing gush; find an opening tonight somewhere you can hide a maze of skin and wreck and sin is easier to confide than in a father of the labyrinth, a brother torn to pity, though warmer till and colder still remains this awful city.whore
by ~julian-crowley
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Untitled Poem It left the cellar 40 years ago it carried itself like a pile of dishes up one flight from the cellar to the kitchenUntitled Poem
Another from the kitchen to the bedroom
Another from the bedroom to the attic
Right past both father and mother and neither stopped it.
Father had gone upstairs, &nbs
by ~ofallpieces
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