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 Jul 2013 Jack Piatt
Marsha Singh
I have written you one
hundred and eighty
one poems about stars
and blackberries fat
as thumbs, and your
hands and sweet
plums, because that's
what I do:
word play, cabaret –
but if these are just myths
I perpetuate because I'm
a perpetual liar, believe me
                                            anyway.
 Jul 2013 Jack Piatt
Sean Winslow
Forgotten are our pleas
to temper the dawn
So that even as the night lays silent
there are echoes,
a rhythmic thrum of time
Carried forth are the quiet souls of man
from the ebbing shores born of passing moments
toward the twilight of the flickering flame.
And land ye yet to those moors of shadow,
that evanescence of the living breath,
take heart!
For on its banks grow the roots of the Bodhi
whose branches bore the seeds for the Garden,
and its leaves are as shelter for the Spark.
Thus we bear the gaze of the boatman,
the cloak'd Moirai who guides the clocks,
as it is best to take the lilting petals
upon the tongue
and savor.
Constructive criticism encouraged.
Copyright ©2010-2016 Sean Winslow All Rights Reserved
 Jul 2013 Jack Piatt
brooke
He finally said
he couldn't. No
Brooke, I can't
be that. He can
not be that.
he cannot be that
(c) Brooke Otto
 Jul 2013 Jack Piatt
brooke
Anxiety.
 Jul 2013 Jack Piatt
brooke
she brushes her lips
with wet fingertips
and says

I'm so afraid of the
words stopping, of
not being able to say
the things tattooed
on my heart. Where
will they go?

she shakes

where will they go?
(c) Brooke Otto

the thing I fear the most is having no one to talk to.
 Jul 2013 Jack Piatt
brooke
I can't put
everything into
pretty words.
(c) Brooke Otto
 Jul 2013 Jack Piatt
brooke
Hazel.
 Jul 2013 Jack Piatt
brooke
this heart is
entirely too
fickle for this
body.
(c) Brooke Otto
 Jul 2013 Jack Piatt
brooke
I have anchored my ship
on broken docks and rowdy
children have set fire to my
sails. The water always laps
at my letters, you know
what to do, you know
what to do.
(c) Brooke Otto
 Jul 2013 Jack Piatt
st64
blinded by startling light,
can one really
see?


mild visions sitting in the dark corners
of shame
strong options flying about
in wild abandon
demanding resentful attention
no epiphany on the steep edge of nerves
just constant and silent grating
escalating the fatalistic complexion
of old wounds
seeping through the rotten bandage
of sickening pretense
rank blood-clots scream such fine expletives
your curling toes may not cope with


which one is chosen..?
dual visions
of life and death
opponents on the same board
no coercion in choice
neither works solo
third option hides
beneath the burning scales of judgment


live through life and death
cut through the slices
of pain
even serrated wedges are better managed
than large edifices


yes, far better to
CRE8 options
than swallow the superb crap that Life shoves
just, who in hell said:
there's only one way...



visions can be
overturned*




S T, 9 July 2013
now, see here: have a jolly time, man.

irony: how we fear options, even when they gloriously exist!




sun-entry: "light of the moon"


live
by the light of the moon

afore ye know it:
without any ceremony
you'll just nod off
for good
then, nicely
they'll try to wash the death-stink off you
and carry you off ...
roll you in some rosed-up rags and
maybe cover you in some splinters of wood
dump you in some deep hole
where they'll scatter some sad words
over your sorry carcass
saline petals, maybe
and think of you
once a year

hence:
to live FULLY by the light
of
the moon..
gotta be
worth living for


(fear not that
that moon will shine
on that patch of ground
anyway :)
The night is delirious.
The lights of the city are
small, broken, hallucinogenic eyes
that are watching us.
I want to be in the middle of a highway.
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