RAY SUCCRE : Horror, a Romance
SHANNON L. PUGH : Personal Apocalypse
LYN LIFSHIN : When I Look at the Velvet Shirt in Light
POETRYREPAIRS v12.04:043
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Horror, a Romance Personal Apocalypse When I Look at the Velvet Shirt in Light  
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RAY SUCCRE
Horror, a Romance
A gore-worm plucked from the rotten head, the shamble of peachy flesh atop bony exposition. Wrong that it induces my sleep some nights? That I chuckle at times over dismemberment? I lift the case for a film about murderous insects and kiss it. A spider in the ceiling's corner watches. The purge of stomachs beside the mutton of men's remains, the art of every silvery thing to bear an edge or sharp point. They are candy, sweets after dinner to a certain music, an interlude. Some say much about these characters' effect on my own, but I am no character. I am quite real. Desensitization? I watch fictions fuck or fret, kill and seethe, in the way I see a lamp's cast is not of the Sun, or my glimpse at a photograph is not a true access. These are works, not life. You take from them just enough to fill the sort of container you bring. I do not wish to befriend the troubled mind that discerns the space between fantasy and reality to be so gray. The wreckage of faces after the brutal scene, the burning, the shooting and chewing and ripping and baring— Lovely, all. I adore those things so vivid and richly designed. They are the lay of falters and furies, the spectacle in the glossy, dream-like spectacle of the paramount.
POETRYREPAIRS 12.04:043
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Horror, a Romance Personal Apocalypse When I Look at the Velvet Shirt in Light  
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SHANNON L. PUGH
Personal Apocalypse
When the greedy eyed, society- the resistance held so dear Made its way into the soft sound of innocent hearts- the still waters of chambers keep, There came the fractures- the ripping of the ventricles- an aorta carved out deep. Emerged a creature- anxiety A being without being- making its way out Spun in a cocoon of blood and grit, With gnashing of teeth- to splinter bones, And scar the marrow sprayed sky. A sign of a personal apocalypse- Written in the flat tone of hollow sockets And heard and viewed until bloody sore The gossip echoing off every pulsing nerve And sketched onto the lives of everyday people- with ugly faces and runny noses The genius of epiphanies and enlightenment in a world turned to ignorance. Yet, ignored are the truths. Cries that awake one from rest, Pound hard upon a wheezing chest- The rancid truth of existence- an eye of God pressed firm against broken ribs Causing realizations of pain and sorrow In the incessant laps between the day and night Dark and light Oh, how emptiness fills the greatest of divides, With unanswerable voices and inaudible words- Mystery- not misery hung upon a T-shaped pillar of the Earth Relief- not guilt and shame. Do you hear the trumpets blasting at your soul Calling you to end? The idea that you too were born to die, Just like those who habituated a sorry existence to the generation before. Do you feel the physical world bending to your feet And pushing a seven-headed beast up from the ground- to devour the wrong To erase all that stains- holding humanity down The plastering of a selfless anti-ego to the human condition A man that has no name- Society
POETRYREPAIRS 12.04: 043
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato



read LYN LIFSHIN's Tsunami as History

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Horror, a Romance Personal Apocalypse When I Look at the Velvet Shirt in Light  
POETRY requires a mature audience ENTER only if you are 18+ under 18? klik here

LYN LIFSHIN
When I Look at the Velvet Shirt in Light
shimmery, the threads pulling apart. I know I shouldn't have washed it, frayed now as the dream of the woman in China sewing the seams, as if to pull together a slab of cloth as she can't a dream of her lost baby girl. It was the law, was something her husband said was out of their hands. he took the hour old handful of black hair and howling and she never saw the baby again. Jasmine, she might have called her. Now she could have sucked tamarinds in the corner or coiled under her long burlap skirt as she stitches and squats where there isn't enough light, her skin warm against her own skin. She wishes the child had frozen in her belly like dirt becoming a pearl. Or an amulet she could talk to, a siamese twin sharing her blood, there to be buried with her. If she'd had a knife or a gun, she dreamt once, shuddering from her husband's fingers. When she weaves to numbness, it's easier not to think. The girl's small feet in the air haunt her like the husks left where sun flower seeds fall out, sockets night fills. shredded velvet looks like clotted blood, a dark red that doesn't rest anywhere
POETRYREPAIRS 12.04: 043
RAY SUCCRE : Horror, a Romance
SHANNON L. PUGH : Personal Apocalypse
LYN LIFSHIN : When I Look at the Velvet Shirt in Light

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