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Sliver under ilness
and ugly prettiless
a penny

ruin of fingerprints
on discarded funn
a house with wax
witch wonderlens

we baked our yore
voristic need
a bulb flickering
the chimes

a cardboard world
with memories

delving trickle madness
lit up alight

the dream dribble
on satin

dont say you

like a dream
the shifting
paper walls


silk in seasons



Editing stage: 


Usually I get a strong sense of your poetry but not o much with this one. Nonetheless your words are gems.
I hope you like the reading

A new workshop on the most important element of poetry-
'Rhythm and Meter in Poetry'

like before its some kind of thing im just working away at.
i realize i was an artist...that i conceptualize like many here
...experimental work in progress....i have doing this
in life and my art here relfects this for sure..

im sounding out words like musicians who can play intuitively
feel the sound of ideal formed and searched worked..
if i knew music by book or art by book it would be different
the years it would have taken to get here would have been
shortened....but then the flavour of it..the bizarreness of
them lately would have been lost...because i would have
lost this surrealness that keeps me out there .and strangely
grounded...its like a blindness so i cant see that im making
something incorreclty...kind of like drawing a picture without
looking at the not great mind..i just stubbornly
keep at this....

thank you

author comment

and it works, my friend, it works.

A new workshop on the most important element of poetry-
'Rhythm and Meter in Poetry'

i use it for my smartphone to listen to music on the seven kilometer walk across our city..
a nice walk..our topography here in winter has many roads..rail and trails that people
keep open...but the long cord designed for a tower app instead of draped over my
neck...caught on everthing slowly fallng apart or deconstructing like my form here
until it stops and i have to extend money and purpose and obtain a new form ..a new
head set with microphone....i can solder it..but i dont have the electric gun ..yet..
dilemna there...the typewriter is working...enough..jumps on return a touch..needs
a newer ribbon but just works...the headhphones xbox in shoes
fallen aviator rugged worn like a fifty mission writing like im
battled and beaten weary too..keys hit wrong at night one eye only works
for reading an old truck with one tricky light...i still got one.. still good for
distance....and thus this poem..tired..looking through my attic and basement
psyche space mumbling..talking aloud like some street visionary or doomspeak
tour guide broadcasting open mic on the nice place...will i make it
on return to land...politics and all.....even a poet i gotta have some grace...
bukowski.s return letter to his job as postman is classic redemption plea
to the magistrate of the man......which ive been to a few times....

glad you liked it! Weirdelf!

author comment
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