poetryrepairs #204 14.09:106
L. S. SHEVSHENKO : The Saddest in the World
STEVEN CROSS : The Neighborhood
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The taste of metal in my mouth I want to return to the home I never quite lived in where I knew several unanxious days and convincing colors – meat redder on a Dutch plate, the girl's aureoles the hue of Peace roses, the white and black tiles gleaming like icing on the cantilevered, cold floor.   Like my friend's ex-wife who yanks their children around like disappointing dolls, I will someday wake and wonder how everything flattened and grew quieter   remember how the wind poured through every slit and pinhole in that house wailing like an ill-tempered organ how the intoxication of pulling down walls settled in dust and lath.   Without moving one home becomes another, a train hiccoughing in syncopation from station to station and back down its too familiar tracks, night pressing at the windows punctured here and there by searchlights and small deaths spat from campfires.  

poetryrepairs #204 14.09:106

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

poetry repairs your heart
even as it splits it open.
The Art of Reading

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The Saddest in the World
discoveredsomething fine.Some studentsmoved innext door andthey were coolalways giving thingsa chemistry seta chess boardthe greatest books on earth:DanteLeo and Lawrence.I was forbiddento bother thembut like everyoneat thirteen I ignored 'the rules'.Theyseemed to like me to feed their catsand dogsand I got to justhang outwhenever I likedand even wateredtheir tree of Christmasgrowingin that living room of light . One morningbefore schoolI fed the animalswaited on the busat their housein their houselistening to a musicwhich was unlike anythingthan I had ever heard. Bill's girl wokeshe spoke softlyandI watched her headroll, up - and down and as she saw meand smiledand never tried to hideand she mounted himridingin thesebeautiful rhythmic tonesthese moansof motionher hairrising and falling surroundingthose breastsas the sun enteredand all I could dowas watchsit thereand beuntilshe finished.She camemany timesto this abodealwayssmiling at menever saying a wordto the blushing of my reserve.And one daygoing over I foundBill and themhad movedin the middle of the nightthe house had a strange emptiness something beautiful had goneit up and diedleaving me behindto rotin a pitiful existencein false theoryof the past.…once again I was the saddest guy around.

from 15 years ago
poetryrepairs #204 14.09:106

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STEVEN CROSS The Neighborhood
The neighborhood is an old slut used by the mines and the factories and then deserted. Her breasts are mountains sagging behind clouds. Her loins are pocked streets, Abandoned buildings and a creek oozing slime. The offspring from the lust for quick money from the dust roam the streets and shout obscenities at the train whistling through the intersection.

from v04.09
poetryrepairs #204 14.09:106

Poetry endangers the established order
of the soul - Plato

REPAIR: resort, frequent or habitual going; concourse or confluence of people at or in a place; making one's way; to go, betake oneself, to arrive; return to a place; to dwell; to recover, heal, or cure; to renew; to fix to original condition. -- O.E.D.


L. S. SHEVSHENKO : The Saddest in the World
STEVEN CROSS : The Neighborhood

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