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1000 results for “tettig”
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BLACK TIE
It's a pretend thing, just like Black Tie
In other places, though not as well
Phrased, to pretend you mean
Something, you're serious, you
Have heft, you're rich, have power.
Those in the real know buy theirs
At charity shops, thrift stores in the
Language of tuxedo wearers, and
Wear them with a sense of irony
Rather than a sense of belonging. -
VULTURES
We cannot see the horizon today.
The fog lies heavy this side of the
Boundary, and joy is beyond
The reach of our eyes. We can find
Nothing to allay this sense of dull
Foreboding that hangs in the air
While the vultures gather in human
Form to bend and twist the carcass
Of the world even more out of its
Chosen shape, and bleed it dry. -
VULTURES
We cannot see the horizon today.
The fog lies heavy this side of the
Boundary, and joy is beyond
The reach of our eyes. We can find
Nothing to allay this sense of dull
Foreboding that hangs in the air
While the vultures gather in human
Form to bend and twist the carcass
Of the world even more out of its
Chosen shape, and bleed it dry. -
VULTURES
We cannot see the horizon today.
The fog lies heavy this side of the
Boundary, and joy is beyond
The reach of our eyes. We can find
Nothing to allay this sense of dull
Foreboding that hangs in the air
While the vultures gather in human
Form to bend and twist the carcass
Of the world even more out of its
Chosen shape, and bleed it dry. -
VULTURES
We cannot see the horizon today.
The fog lies heavy this side of the
Boundary, and joy is beyond
The reach of our eyes. We can find
Nothing to allay this sense of dull
Foreboding that hangs in the air
While the vultures gather in human
Form to bend and twist the carcass
Of the world even more out of its
Chosen shape, and bleed it dry. -
VULTURES
We cannot see the horizon today.
The fog lies heavy this side of the
Boundary, and joy is beyond
The reach of our eyes. We can find
Nothing to allay this sense of dull
Foreboding that hangs in the air
While the vultures gather in human
Form to bend and twist the carcass
Of the world even more out of its
Chosen shape, and bleed it dry. -
TIME TRAVELLERS
My son thinks I look like a time traveller
In the hat he gave me and the suit one
Of my daughters gifted me. I’ve never
Been able to lie, so I tell him I really am
One, come from places I can’t recall,
Seen faces I can’t forget, and borrowed
Lives I’d rather not have lived before
Now and after now. I’m not sure he
Believes me. The ages carry traces
Of us all. -
HER PYRE
Out of the darkness they hauled her,
Gave her the strap in public until
Her back covered the ground in
Black blood, transparent sweat,
But no tears. They were busy building
The pyre for her impenitent strength,
But she broke out of the barred room
In the dead of the night before, teeth
Gnawing wood and iron, fists
Stronger than their shackles. She
Was back in her forest at dawn,
An example made of the evil of men. -
SERIAL MONOGAMY
If you’re a serial
Monogamist, it’s easy
To let one relationship
Segue into the next;
The old love fades out
Quietly, and the new
One fades in gently
Without anyone really
Knowing. One has a
Slight increase in touch,
The other slight absences
Of the tactile. Tracks shift
A little, the key changes
Subtly, and the new tune
Raises its volume after
The discreet and required
Pause in beats. -
In The Style Of Jackson Pollock (or not)
His mind is packed full
Of useless things:
A pack of cards,
Three chess problems,
A shopping list,
Greek words he doesn’t understand,
German echoes,
Norwegian pronunciations,
Noam Chomsky,
William Labov,
Bits of poetry,
Unfinished plots,
More chess pieces,
Tears – the wet type,
Questions unformed,
Rapid Eye Movement,
Unrest.He resembles a collage
Of intentions and denials
Trying too hard. -
Never Done
When the time comes,
Which life and some unknown
Spirits might determine, and
My mind flies out to some
Undiscovered universe and its
Attendant galaxies, when
All that is doneLet my ashes #nourish the
Earth, or my body science,
Whichever lays the first claim
On what was never mine
To begin with.Then let the fireworks begin,
And some elation, because
This is what living always was;
Too short, too quick, and
Never done. -
Melancholia
Late evening moon rise,
Woodburner roar,
The room dark.
Shadows from the fire
Jump spaces.She leans into her chair,
Legs up and arms wrapped
Around her knees,
Stares at the flames.That fiery dance,
The start of it all.She shakes away
The wistful memory,
Disentangles the claws
Of the past from her
Mending heart.The night ages.
She doesn’t move.
The fire whispers.
Sleep in here
Is her relief.