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Shane Hunt Oct 2013
I reflect upon our shared moments
much the way
an alcoholic
stares into an empty tumbler
realizing
he can't afford a refill...
Shane Hunt Jan 2013
The needle-tip,





a bee sting





giving rise to a hive.




A sickening delirium
coursing mercurial under eyelids,



tapeworms and tendrils
weaving wildly:



teeming, churning tides breaking over
greedy teeth (a needy mouth


flaying flesh ferociously,
a fevered wolverine
whipping through a petting zoo).

Each agonizing second
slowly sliding by,
tacky molasses on cloth
covering a table in an innocuous
American home
bruises on mother's face
fade (eggplant to jaundice
to the crimson of the setting sun
dying behind the horizon
line {chopped across a counter-top
like a broken promise...}).  




All the lives we compromise



trying to cage a swarm.
I'm really unsure about this. In an attempt to create a chaotic feeling I'm afraid it's just vague or a collection of jarring imagery. Thoughts?
Shane Hunt Jan 2013
The grace of God was painted
on the canvass of your soft skin,
but you don't see it.

I try to touch it,
but you secret it away
like a scar,
or deformity.

I pray for strength,
but the devil propositions
where God charges admission...

no one knocks a free ride.
Shane Hunt Oct 2012
Reflection
will distort this moment—

(an oasis
in the desert of memory)

the simple
wonder of the instant diminished

as gemstones
depreciated by display upon

a gold band.


Focus fades
in inching instants

(a shutter
slowly closing over a lens)

and we
imperceptibly surrender

clarity
to these evanescing essences of

youth and reminiscence.
Shane Hunt Oct 2012
... ravening wolf's
blood-caked maw
     explodes
plumes of condensation
    to evidence exertion.


He guards his ****
with a dogged dread,

for I
am an
unfamiliar
predator.
Shane Hunt Oct 2012
My eyes fly
to the swatch of sack-cloth
abandoned in a corner of the floor,
no doubt considered
for use in a patchwork at some point.

I wonder if it mourns
its shortcomings.
Shane Hunt Oct 2012
A querulous cry
from my peckish feline
failed to rouse me from sleep:

thus,
teeth entangled in the meat of my palm,
this hideous beast
bucked conventional wisdom in
deciding to bite a hand
to prompt a feeding.

Concurrently
I am considering the adage
of there being more than one way
to skin a cat.
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