JOHN GREY : Mother-Daughter
PRASENJIT MAITI : Gimmick
JOHN AMEN : What Sanctuary?
POETRYREPAIRS v12.09:105
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Mother-Daughter Gimmick What Sanctuary?  
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JOHN GREY
Mother-Daughter
give me gladiola-red, henna-red, in dresses battleship wide her daughter hums, 1 was always big in a massive sort of mid-Atlantic way and now what? the pale jitterbug of a little old lady looking into the eyes of once marriageable child the mausoleum of the heart, from time to time, descending into night's jaws, for more tales of obliterated sex and dead husbands
POETRYREPAIRS 12.09:105
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I have many things to write unto you but   I will not write with pen and ink
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Mother-Daughter Gimmick What Sanctuary?  
POETRY requires a mature audience ENTER only if you are 18+ under 18? klik here
PRASENJIT MAITI
Gimmick

It was late in the morning when the sun was finally persuaded to rise, rinsing his gleaming teeth of fire with yours at the nasty slipstream of memories, crushing angry passion flowers and wild berries among your virgin forests to face the day like a man as he must without you … and why must you be always so cold and serene like the distant stars? this sunny day is like any other among the serenade of sorrows that remind you of cold battles foregone and old soldiers deserted like nobody's mundane business … it was late in the evening when all the bottles of perfume finally rushed to woo you and your aroma and musk of richness that made the sun go quietly down across the yonder rivers like a dandy whimper … and so the sun must rise and the sun must set and the sun must cry and wry its useless hands till you're aflame and nearly all your rivers go all so blatantly
POETRYREPAIRS 12.09: 105
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato





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Mother-Daughter Gimmick What Sanctuary?  
POETRY requires a mature audience ENTER only if you are 18+ under 18? klik here

JOHN AMEN
What Sanctuary?
After the day's razing, I go out looking to get laid, end up at a coffee shop reading a cheap zine. When I leave, my hands are as black as shadows, and I am fifteen years older. Soldiers are eating raw pork in the streets. Mannequins lie in gutters, profanities scribbled on their breasts. I am singing happy birthday to myself when the first bomb falls. In a second, I will be an old man peering through a rusty keyhole, wondering why the room inside is empty. My children will walk by rubble as casually as if they were window shopping. And when night pounds like a court date, bailiffs with clipped wings will appear, escort me to a place lined with broken glass, where my name will be removed as if it were old gauze, before God arrives like a celebrated surgeon, puts the mask over my face, and amputates my memory.
POETRYREPAIRS 12.09: 105
JOHN GREY : Mother-Daughter
PRASENJIT MAITI : Gimmick
JOHN AMEN : What Sanctuary?
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