POETRYREPAIRS 12.11:130
MERCEDES JEAN WEBB-PULLMAN : Dementia
JEFFREY C. ALFIER : A Discernable Horizon
JIM BORING : Auction
POETRYREPAIRS v12.11:130
contemporary international poetry - for your reading pleasure,
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All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge



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Dementia A Discernable Horizon Auction  
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MERCEDES JEAN WEBB-PULLMAN
Dementia 
in the sweet melon hinterland midday paralysis strikes from the roofs' light cubes and the damp moss in your head encourages forgetfulness, feeds dreams – it's no surprise to see him turned back towards you, smiling one hand held out, moving away up the stairs, and gone... ah, young air-doctors, their ignorance of being awake, the hours of the damned lost in confusion like laughter reined in lost in confusion like laughter
POETRYREPAIRS 12.11:130
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Dementia A Discernable Horizon Auction  
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JEFFREY C. ALFIER 
A Discernable Horizon
In delirious thirst, clouds drift unchained. Dense with silence, the altitude between the hawk's arc and the tracing in the sand spells a last definition of freedom where clouds drink themselves into winedark storms.
POETRYREPAIRS 12.11: 130
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato





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Dementia A Discernable Horizon Auction  
POETRY requires a mature audience ENTER only if you are 18+ under 18? klik here

JIM BORING
Auction
"Not many out there." She turned toward the window, looked and nodded. A corner of wallpaper was peeling up near the sink She touched it and recoiled as though something had bitten her. What's wrong with me, she thought, fussing with wallpaper now? The old man doesn't look good. His face is gray. I hope he makes it through this. He stood and stared without expression Drumming his fingers on the countertop. "Not many out there," he said again as though he had forgotten. In the yard the furniture stands confused Too old, too frail, too yesterday. This is good, this will work, this is okay. And the heavy equipment hunched like abandoned circus elephants With the work gone and the parade gone on without them. He sat heavily on the old sofa and felt a spring tense beneath him Won't have to put up with that anymore this sofa like some archer stretching Ready to shoot him in the ass. He rubbed the worn nap with his rough hand. Go ahead sofa, shoot. The toilet flushed. What's she doing in there? Third time this morning. She doesn't want to show it but she is having a hard time. His throat tightened. All she has ever had is a hard time. In the yard friends and strangers touched their things Decided mostly not to buy their faces somber Their glances toward the window shy. Might as well burn it all Might as well pile it up and climb on top of it And burn it all. "You all right?" "My stomach, that's all." "Be over soon," he said. She stood over him and touched his thin hair.
POETRYREPAIRS 12.11: 130
MERCEDES JEAN WEBB-PULLMAN : Dementia
JEFFREY C. ALFIER : A Discernable Horizon
JIM BORING : Auction
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