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Apr 2013
We call the night by different names
though it is the same drooping moon
slathered into the sky. Careless and untamed.
on my knees, depraved, and shouting
how could you not understand this?

lifting whiskey glass from tray,
and pouring concessions,
and prior arrangements over each stone,
now that will only serve to batter me
as I swallow myself.
get through to you, I could only shout.
I could only feel so exhausted
by the innumerable times in which
we have traversed the landscapes of a circle.
The ring of a glass, maybe,
or the times in which your parlance
was robbed of it's intention by tongue,
and stutters.

Unfold myself into the night, like paper swans,
like love notes in a calm, sunken eyed stooper
over fire light in the back yard,
and the wafting ascension
of everything you owned in it.

Maybe I over reacted,
maybe an abrasive ******* like
your friends say.
         like I believe.
Maybe you made this.

You have been making this.
Written by
Jory  Chicago
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