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Archive for December 9th, 2010

A Way Out

When to get there?

There is a way out.

The path narrows.

Sharp pencils stab temples.

There is a way out.

The black blanket is heavy.

Pressure makes forehead bend.

There is a way out.

Here is violet hate.

There is red rage.

There is a way out.

I Dream of small caves.

I Crawl alone on bumpy rock.

There is a way out.

Frozen twigs cover me.

Burial is after a sparse lunch.

There is a way out.

But why is it so final?

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Drowning in Tar With Fur

The fur in the small brain curls

And twists and holds in a wrapped position.

The look down. The top of eyelids. The warmth of love.

 

There is a desire for running.

Run to the best but there is nothing to run to.

Nothing to run from because the fur will stick

With purple static.

Nothing to run from

In the rain-soaked, blacked-out jail.

Orange ceilings talk about holding still.

Floors knowing that there are no legs

With which to run.

Stuck in a dream.

The fur is itching the eyes and

There is no vision to behold life.

Hold still, the breath says.

Pull on the fur but there are no clumps.

There is no release.

 

Walk away and run to the park.

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