Words have a weight all their own.
Pushing the stones around with my tongue
i excavate speach, uncovering artifacts.
i found everything within an alabaster jar.
the dried wine the scrap of linen, the halting
compliment.
I seek the eternal engine
not just the combustion of the heart.
Looking forward to midnight
and to dusk at the crossroads writing
names with a stick in the dust an infinity
of names in the dust and nothing lifts my blood
but moving from word to word to word.














Devious Comments
Comments
--
TheExquisiteCorpse
it's been here for a few weeks now
i think it may have a bit of yogurt stuck to it.
why do i insist on not putting it in the sink.
god i hate being difficult.
--
"All art is quite useless."
-Oscar Wilde
...it completely confuses me and yet i cant stop reading it..enough rambling...very nicely done
not caring for poetry is one
not understanding
is not. because the one is for fools
and the other is for everyone.
--
"All art is quite useless."
-Oscar Wilde
sjeez can't you write some crap sometime like the rest of us?
--
If I could start again, a million miles away. /
well if you insist
but by all means dont tell anyone!
i have a reputation.
nice to see you back too.
--
"All art is quite useless."
-Oscar Wilde
apologize
for not sucking.
--
"All art is quite useless."
-Oscar Wilde
but it's eretheal.
And now that I just said a word that I'm not sure I spelled correctly, allow me to point out "speach", is "speech" unless you were going through some witty word play that flew over my head.
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