Quotes about searing, page 13
How The World Once Stopped...
Time with all its florid offerings
indelible petals of prismatic paint
frozen blankets
horizon snowy canvass
vines of resurrection still
clinging to stamen of withered
asphyxia
night spills its
chocolate
affection
mouths flow sweet
with the mellifluous
golden syrup fondue
of a melting pot sun
particles of reoccuring
dream resume their
patterns of apolitical
democratic anarchy
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poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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0027 Dreaming truth
Imagine yourself -
yourself, to imagine –
this dream; dream
this imaging:
the water’s so far, far below
it’s beyond this dark imagining, this dream;
all your attention is required
by this rope bridge,
swayed by nature to some immediate, vibrating laws
of this way, that way, more complex
than steel or concrete bear in mind –
five lines of rope, that’s all,
bound from time to time
but only every few and fearful steps
so that they do not part
unless you tread without remembering
all five of them; toe, heel, as you place your foot…
and now it seems, in the illogical
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Behind The Machine Gun
There are nights spoiled
like women dancing with macabre,
men praying in pub houses
both soaked in the belly
of licorice and blood-colored
soldering of chemical spirits,
like children sleeplessly lying
in beds without bedtime stories;
parents making out with whores
in a nameless stag diner,
like these moths suspended
in my cobwebbed chandeliers
These somber nights would
sometime trample in the crevasses
of my womanless bed
crying a song to my spine
and clinging to the crowfeet
juxtaposed my cellar eyes
and what I would do is:
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poem by Norman Santos
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Redundancy in Abundance
Exuding eloquent dismal
Over the trickling perspirations
Of exhausting redundancy
Is but amassing more to credence
In the thicket of its abundance
I'd rather hold my breath
In a hiatus.
For one, the searing streets
Is full of stray cats making slinky love
With the baleful rake of amour
And their hoarse caterwauls
Disembogue the quintessence
That sex became overrated
And love dissipated
In the grazing of tongues
And bracing of flesh.
And there's the lubricated
Lubricous gears of the tethered clock
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poem by Norman Santos
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Echoes Of The Silence
The black squirming beads
Confine the groveling quietus
Beneath the strands of my canopy
And it cradles a somnolence
Farce, vis-à-vis the despondence
Of the elusive spangling ivories
Amidst the sound of desolation
I can hear the echoes fringe
The quiescent of a hiatus
Of the shriveling breaths
Of my lost secluded island
Where the sun never mount
Thus, never shrink out
From the dearth of my toppling horizon
Effervescent carols linger and slither
Suffocating the mistral atmosphere
Reckoning the blaring tapestry
Albeit, the frescoes dispensed
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poem by Norman Santos
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Dwarf Life
Terry.
Male. Short. Knowing. Aging.
Sibling of Sharon and Annette.
Son of William and Jessie.
Lover of Chocolate. Ice-Cream. And Beer.
Who feels freedom confinement and fear.
Who needs friends sport and excitement.
Who gives time energy and life.
Who fears pressure stupidity and the mundane.
Who would like enlightenment spirituality warmth
and mind-song.
Resident of Christchurch Ian Place.
Craddock like all names does not confine me.
Rhythm Resonating Life.
A Heart Beat Multiplied.
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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I Am Surrounded
Safety in numbers?
I see this world in a different light
Safety in solitude-
In my home,
Out on the streets or
On the path I walk everyday –
Anticipation can be
As threatening as can be
A brushfire in the heavens where
There are no clouds to hide it and worse yet
No rain to quench its perilous flames-
Realization is none but a nightmare-
People walking behind me,
Ahead of me-
Eyes are upon me-
In a dangerous manner
My inner strength is flagging and
My spirit, my soul, and the very heart of me is afire-
Trees growing tall,
Their branches budding and
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poem by Claudia Krizay
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Cassandra
O Hymen king.
Hymen, O Hymen king,
what bitter thing is this?
what shaft, tearing my heart?
what scar, what light, what fire
searing my eye-balls and my eyes with flame?
nameless, O spoken name,
king, lord, speak blameless Hymen.
Why do you blind my eyes?
why do you dart and pulse
till all the dark is home,
then find my soul
and ruthless draw it back?
scaling the scaleless,
opening the dark?
speak, nameless, power and might;
when will you leave me quite?
when will you break my wings
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poem by Hilda Doolittle
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Emaciated Shadow
The sun ballasted searing aloft
And the emollient equinox escalated
The taunting ladder of schism
Upon the bequeathed garden
And, startled, everyone erected
Shifting legs and reloading guns
Never realizing the core of the brunt
Each one, feigning to be the only begotten son
Naked are the clandestine hedonists,
Clad in silk are the quaint sybarites,
And the ignorant martyrs were repelled
Into the flueret floors of the chasm
Where the light deemed barricaded
From reckoning the mantling shade
Meanwhile, the shadows were casted
Upon the vexed and judged ones
I mused on the cantankerous catastrophe
As the others transgressed in hubris
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poem by Norman Santos
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Mystic Journey: Water
a gray metal tanker berths on grey metal sea
like a new-born cocooned on mother's bosom.
transporting tons of vital oil, it has come
from the north, and winter, east and night,
challenging currents. it was along aleutian
shores, facing furious siberian storms that
shatter human skull like eggshell that he
handed over control of autonomic functions
of his charge to the bridge. now he maps
solely by instinct (half-forgotten memories
of half-forgotten youth startle like robins
or scent of elm sap stuck to familiar palm.
endless waves of wheat starched like sunday
shirts beyond an old battered barn: perhaps
the whole world is only an endless ocean
of grain? a slow canoe ride down a slow
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poem by Doug Bentley
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