HOLLY DAY : Telling It
KENNETH ASHWORTH : Crawl Space
ABIGAIL B. CALKIN : Para Te
POETRYREPAIRS v12.11:127
contemporary international poetry - for your reading pleasure,
poetry from new and established poets and essays on writing


All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge



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Telling It Crawl Space Para Te  
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HOLLY DAY
Telling It
the real ticket to making it is to just live longer than everyone around me, find some group of starry- eyed youngsters that don't know any better, easily wowed by nostalgic stories of once being lovers with, or at least getting to hang out with the true shining stars of the scene, perhaps even writing a book about it all someday
POETRYREPAIRS 12.11:127
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I have many things to write unto you but   I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian






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Telling It Crawl Space Para Te  
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KENNETH ASHWORTH
Crawl Space
When I was a kid, my father had a blue peel-paint trapdoor in the side of his head. It wasn't very big; the size of an old war wound. My mother bandaged herself in strips of percale, wrung sheets to stiffen on the line signaling cease-fire; a time to gather the dead. When he would catch me staring, he'd cut his eyes so hard the door sprang open. Oil-black things filled the air with fluttering, dashed against windowpanes or skittered up the chimney to make an escape while I cowered and covered my head with my hands. Mother always cleaned up afterward with a feather duster; stubbed a cigarette butt in his ear to stem the leak of viscous fluid always staining his T- shirts the yellow of nicotine teeth. She would lean over him slowly drawing her thumb across his Adam's apple, back and forth until he would smile and loll; his head would swivel like an infant drunk on breast milk. Once when he was asleep, snake of ash coiled around his fingers, I crepted forward and inched the door open for a peek- I've never said this- the walls were plastered with dirty pictures: women with black slits where eyes should be. Intumescent skin hung from bones like torn paper.
POETRYREPAIRS 12.11: 127
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato





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Telling It Crawl Space Para Te  
POETRY requires a mature audience ENTER only if you are 18+ under 18? klik here

ABIGAIL B. CALKIN
Para Te
I am a sheet of white paper. I am your life, your wife. You are the black ink of a pen That spilled a macula on my paper. I shall not be at your grave: I'll shed my tears on linen sheets. I am snow remembering When we trod the silent midnights Footsteps that met, separated, intertwined. We left our marks on each other's path.
POETRYREPAIRS 12.11: 127
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HOLLY DAY : Telling It
KENNETH ASHWORTH : Crawl Space
ABIGAIL B. CALKIN : Para Te
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