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Literature
bladespace
and if i was to
fence
with the human condition to
prove what it’s worth
who would stand alongside
to judge
each
touch
and if each flick would
align stars
constellating across
the chest, and each lunge would
(frame by frame)
fraction the blades-width between
myself and
mortality, would i then be
irreversibly immortal
and would we ever truly
touch, if the boundaries of particles can be
defined as space then my aren’t we
galaxies apart, emotionality
and i
and at the end of the bout
would our footwork not mark our
styles, design us
by the nature of our
elegantly moving
soles
Literature
The Flood
when they finally returned
the house had split along the
outer corners
water had burrowed
under the floorboards
knocking them up and into criss-cross patterns
under their feet
floated furniture had
punctured the walls and
he thought the whole abode had ran itself apart
as if to flee
from a crime
a muddy line
sat neatly across the windows bottom half
so they could both see where the flood had peaked
that night
she couldn’t go to the child’s room
instead she sat upon an old potato box in the place
they use to call the living room
– already numb from
the doxepin
she needed that morning
just to make it back
he walked
Literature
psychosomatic serenade.
Schrodinger has been writing me
love letters, and he hasn’t. he
catcalls me from closed boxes
while I flip coins trying to figure
out what’s breathing, what isn’t.
your coffin, floating in earthen
rivers, hinges gleaming iridescent
as salmon scales, I am sitting here
guessing if the cat is dead or alive
in that imaginary vacuum, ignoring
Pavlov’s set ringtone on my phone -
the bells make me think of your
throat, how your Adam’s apple
rang when you swallowed down
another of my placebo promises.
I love, loved, you. and I didn’t.
Freud keeps dropping business
cards through the letterbox asking
my mother t
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I love / this this this / you you you.