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I don't want to fix you, dress you up in pomp and circumstance, circus-like
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A wooden box with elephants walking the lid is a casket, inlaid with red velvet, worn down.
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I have been saying nothing, when I ought to be hollering, carving the truth on to walls and setting it alight in words of petrol.
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I wonder if you remember as clearly as I do the rich texture of the light on our bodies, so it seemed that we ourselves were glowing with l
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It is a strange thing this, to consider: the world in hasty, whirling throes
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I can hear the steady steady ticking of the clock,
heartbeat, counting counting down.
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I find myself waiting for a sign, from
any gods still lingering, any that
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I looked to the sky and it spelled out your each gesture, the clouds were your hands,
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Loneliness is cholera. I caught it, and now I think I may die of it. And so here I am, writing, writing, though words dispel nothing. They are not charms, they are not lucky. They bring me nothing, nobody, they hold no secret
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Where were you when our war was just beginning? When the armies were
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Your eyes are twin die rolling, tumbling,
and I cannot predict their landing.
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The sunshine should be a glory, a piercing glow of truth and summer and certainty.
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My memory is a flicker of a candle; the solemn dark before the burst match, the click-click-clicking of
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The solar system was in your face, smoothly revolving around and around, clockwork,
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I do not write very much, anymore. I havn't
forgotten how I just don't know whether
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The stake I am bound to, is you, and now I am burning, burning. London. Strange flames flicking forked tongues around my body. I am licked by malice and you didn't think you didn't think you didn't think, did you?
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You do not ask me for forgiveness, a smile, or this poem. Your expression was, I remember, strange, as though
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I am writing a person, a living thing, of flesh and sinew, wiry muscled;
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The world is milky magnolia petals
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The mechanical chirping of my telephone
has become the sweetest, the most welcome of sounds.
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I am waiting for my skin to freckle and for you to kiss every one,
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And I think, with the passing years of my life, older, sadder, memories fading
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If I could condense all of the things I love about you and I together, if I could take everything
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My cold fingers let ashes and angels slip through. And no longer, no longer can I hold on to you.
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The weather is always sympathetic, it seems, to our plight or our flight; we cry in the rain so neither can tell whether wet cheeks are salt or acid, and we smile like sunbeams, our mouths shining with hope. My life is cuppe
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At new year I looked around, listened to the beat of the song that reminds me always of you and saw flashing lights on pink green purple re
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I was a wide arc; a skeleton crossing.
My face, folded from white paper,
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all there is, is the silence
and an army of memories passing,
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It took me an age to reach the top of the staircase,
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I moved apart from the crowd, spurred on by the hope that your face would emerge, close,
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I am tired, tired of feeling sad that I do not know
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I remember. The wave's earnest caress,
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The tinny wavering note strikes in me
a memory of a canvass, a dark haired singer
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Death lays its warm hands upon the world,
darkness splinteing from its palms, spread wide
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Mother, I wonder, if at nights
you remember him as he was, the day
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