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 Aug 2013 Joanne Fuda
st64
the tape spins . . . in over-reel
haphazard lines in convulsed black



1.
Clear and still lake . . .                                                                  ­    hardly a ripple on the blue matter
Step to water’s edge . . .                                                                ­   hesitant eyes briefly touch the surface
Heel lifts into the arch of civilisations hanging . . .                      humming inside-tunes
Foot pendulous and . . . toes dipping                                             aching-slow sink in
clean and      . . .  s u b m e r g e d
Then rising, a single drop escapes . . . sweet                                 h   e    a    l


2.
Step forward . . . into the void . . . it has been waiting . . .               sacrosanct

the flourish . . . to reach . . . constant  . . .                                            oh, it is here
finally

( . . . )


this is
the truest understanding
to me . . . undeniable life-spring*




S T, 29 Augmented 2013
globe spins on . . . time for a beach-walk and smell that fresh, salty air . . . despite whatevr :)
not gonna go bitin' me elbows.





sub-entry : heron’s call

sparkle of dew on leaf-tips
trail of dead earthworms
flattened by the wheels . . . on wet tar
feel the veritable tremors of the heron’s call . . . echo
beseeching to the others

muted rumours of a vagrant’s death in hostile chill
against backdrop of giant stone-face
table-cloth long dissipated . . . by now
icicles hang with plaintive air in another realm
of land-locked drought
where obscenely-rich jetsetters sport their latest Pontiac or Porsche
subconsciously remember bonds of care
amidst tipsy tinkles of flibbertigibbets
a drink the cost of their kin’s weekly wages and
deign to pop with cordial air-kisses and leftover-humanity
to down-and-broke parents who offer freshly-steeped oolong to half-hearted ingrates

stepping aside the hangman’s hope
round that perilous bend
into that iconoclastic gut’s-trail as smeared revealings
whose juddering disciple turns out not a plagiarist
shows
he had seen the lofty bird take flight and burst to flame
before their latent eyes

dismay can well hold hands with anticipated pitch  
yet leather-strapped feet trudge on
as not only eyes, but meagre spool rolls on . . . closer . . . closer . . . closer
every moment framed by minded pellucidity

hands in ill-assorted gloves . . . no matter
they fit
all fine and fitting wholly . . . within that heron’s call

it all fits somehow . . . in the trans-coloured emblem of a winded prism                            
wǒ ài nǐ





http://m.youtube.com/#/watch?v=_2TGkBf7vMQ&desktop;_uri=%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D_2TGkBf7vMQ
 Aug 2013 Joanne Fuda
JM
Tired
 Aug 2013 Joanne Fuda
JM
Blue shadows, full moon.
Thick with need, the night consumes.
Nocturnal bloodlust
 Aug 2013 Joanne Fuda
JM
Have you ever existed
anywhere but in the *****
whirl of my mind?

Are you alive?

Your brain has yet to
process the stimuli I have
in store for your
pale and
willing flesh.

Embrace your dark nothing

This time we have,
this Now;
We are destroying
boundaries and expanding
horizons.
We cross oceans of time
with ink and paper
blood and pain.

We expose our wounds
hoping for
some kind soul
to lick us clean.

We are all one

These hands of mine
on your soft cheek,
I can not die
until I feel you.
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