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Jul 2015
Old house on the hill
fallen to ruin I can hear my mother's voice
above the flutter of wings.  
There she is rising from the grave,
half moons caked with dirt,
every finger wearing a ring.
I do not see her lips move
as she goes limp until the present rolls backward.

I become lost in endless blackness swirling  
in cold that slithers under my skin,
and then her bladder lets go
and I become the placenta
trolling for her full-blown kiss,
her mega-watt smile,
while longing for the comfort of
of her arms warm like the safety of her ****.

Suddenly I'm alone, fog wrapped in
empty space
until the train rattles past startling pigeons into flight.

The train's chilling whistle
hangs eerily in the wind as the cars go
clacking and rumbling down the track;

This is a song I've known since childhood,
along with the pounding cold surf
and the noise from the penny arcade.

The carney yells, "Step right up,
buckle yourself into this nightmare ride."  
I enter a car and soon it vanishes taking me with it.
Is it the alchemy of my soul
that leads me through their spiritual unrest?

The carney plays a priestly role,
on the other side of the closed curtain,
as I am ****** into this nightly re-enactment
with those loved ones who have now passed through
the dismal stretch into the dark divide.
patty m
Written by
patty m  ether
(ether)   
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