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Sam Lincoln Sep 2015
Do you remember when I put my
head in your lap, and you let the knife fall down?
I spent that year walking in circles with my hands out.
Sam Lincoln May 2014
If you could find my azule ink
In the gullets of lack-long sun fish:
You would find a young woman at shore always letting out the string. Yet, sun is bleaching the cloth, sand, wood, skin and I don't think we would recognize any of ourself by the end of it.
Sam Lincoln May 2014
People cannot tickle themselves,
perhaps needing fingers unfamiliar
to please them.
Sam Lincoln May 2014

Charles ate a Rocky Mountain
oyster shell from the spleuchen
of a bee resting on a bed plate,
but then fell asleep.

Glandular curvulas search for
the meaning of life;
to **** and be ****** by the nerve centre.

Clooties of the Yellowstone national park
make regretful decisions, that lead to excessive
crying, and dry/wet heaving for
The ending is on pp.22 featuring beam rays
telltale sign of stirless beaches and nights irritating
my irritatory sun causing me

from the letter shape of my family tree.
Quintessentially, but not really, reptilians smiled
to eat sour investment of  telltale
signs of testicular cancer,
while sending SMS messages to
acquaintances blabbering
"Come over and watch a movie ;)"
and gloating of recently acquired masseuse skills.
I had to write something that meant nothing for school
Sam Lincoln May 2014
The temporary home that I
Occupy is guarded by Cerberus. Three
Pit bulls barking at the gate and jumping

On my chest with sharp claws, but this
idiot wasn't always here.
In early years walked in the evergreen

rain; listening to raindrops click on canvas
of a hood centimeters far from the head, and
when night would come, stare out in to

pinhole nights bargaining with god
on pain and boredom. “I swear if
you would give me a sign, I will do good.”

Then the crickets would laugh, while
The trees hissed their endless secrets, so
There was nothing found that day.

In this trailer, now, the water burns
My skin; bringing roses of blood to
The surface, and leaking

Out of my gums, so each night
I drink the wine to fill my belly
With ideas of T.S. Eliot, or Ginsberg,

But looking like a ******* quack, and
Crying to old songs that used to hold
Different meanings.

My mother lives inside the sea;
A million lost dust specks sinking
To the bottom of the trenches,

Swimming about sea creatures
And fish that glow in the
Endless darkness of the depths.

I thought so many times that I’d
Follower her there through the
River, and if you give me a sign

God, I will, but I keep snagging
Myself on the sage brush outside
The front door, and my legs

Grow heavier. When I go to sleep
Tonight I’ll fall asleep in mind that
My dog is resting in the landfill

On town’s end, and I've thought
That I could grab him there; maggots
Filling up the eye holes. If you give

Me a sign, God, I will. The
Fan flies over head, and the
Computer hums loudly for one second.
Sam Lincoln May 2014
I wish so dearly that you could see my love for you
but it's stuck in my chest
and all I have to express this completion and warmth
that you give me
are symbols and sounds
triviality, symbols, sounds... Don't come close
To what is real, when you're near

The summer insects celebrate the coming
of seasons as I lay in my cot, and ponder
of how I hate the changing of weather
because It reminds me of how I'm dying
and I feel like a lonely magazine laying on a coffee table
in a deserted office, once all the tired peons have gone
to their restful homes
I sit, in darkness, immobile, yet waiting
for something unfathomable
I'm thinking
I wish so dearly that my love could see what I feel, but It's trapped in my chest
and these seasons passing drives me insane. I just remembered I'm dying.
Sam Lincoln May 2014
The springs of the trampoline
squeak to our movements, till we
fall dead on mesh.

I pulled off screen
to my window into undeveloped
darkness, and ran to you

after I heard you calling in my yard.
Home sounded like vents
and boom box hissing, and mother's

silent shoulder silhouetted
by some artificial glow.
I love you, shoulder,

and all the pages that I
put a finger to flip; under
the covers, covered in dark

where I adorn myself in cloths
to my coffin— too slow, then
come out wrinkled in the schoolyard

to get laughed at.
Here now, where I'm
sleeping in some friends

wardrobe, you called out
to me again, from a car
with tendrils of rain

streaking the glass,
but I didn't pull off any
screen. I didn't run anywhere
I just sat and sighed.
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