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Jun 2015 · 560
Breath
Brett Houghton Jun 2015
Exits the friendly
From sun circled centre
Where no wispy 'membrance,
though 'tis what we're made of,
dost tangle in beaches or camp grounds.

Forgetting is lonely
in mustard seed corners
though lonely has purpose,
if purpose is stardom,
when taken in two over doses.

Chopping aortas
from hair raisèd partners
and sewing mine own onto
maddery night times
where blood is awaited and tha-thumping rythms exchange their romances thu-thampingly.

Grasping at cries,
and at nights overlapping.
"It's been a messy couple months"
May 2015 · 404
Wall Street
Brett Houghton May 2015
Tilt the life liquid,
from occupied plastic;
so rivers stream
where you can't see,
but you can hear.

It is kin to phlegm
in the back of my throat

And 'scaped from my lips,
a hero drops,
Too worn from tubes
To accept another.

Askew a tongue
to a soldier who's fallen.
Rescue the numbed.
A soldier.

What makes a hero is loneliness
Because feeling lonely is all he is.
So pity on him. Folly it is.
Image > Metre

— The End —