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 Dec 2014 Tracy Malloy
Devon Webb
Your hands fit
perfectly into my
skinny spaces
as if the
primary-school outline
of your palm
was drawn
just for me.
 Dec 2014 Tracy Malloy
Devon Webb
I can see myself
destroying
my own dignity,
popping it like
bubble-wrap
and watching as it
deflates
under my
forcible
fingertips.
Poetry whirls down drains,
cruises down highway lanes..
toll free.

Poetry is a clear potion,
a natural motion.

Poetry is the bird gliding high,
and of course, the sky.

Poetry is thundering elk
through forests and glades,
and the wolves that keep pace.

Poetry is the ****.

Poetry is democracy,
and its unfortunate hypocracy.

Poetry is eternity vanished in an instant.

Poetry is a slaughterhouse,
a vegetable garden.

Poetry is cat and mouse.

Poetry ascends to descend,
breaks to repair,
it's uncommonly rare.

Poetry is the longest minute
and the shortest hour.

Poetry lives when it is dead.
Poetry comes from the body,
thought by the head.
This poem is simply put what i think of poetry. Everybody has to write a poem about poetry right? RIGHT?
 Sep 2012 Tracy Malloy
M
Magic Trick
 Sep 2012 Tracy Malloy
M
And as we kissed
and lay in my bed
she pulled up my sleeves
and saw the grotesque scars
from years of sadness

For the first time
I felt nothing when I
looked at my arms
It didn't look like mine
it didn't fit how happy
I felt with her

She pulled down
my sleeves
and walked out
the door
The pulse of our home,
Your floor-thumping tail, now beats
Your funeral drum.

© Marcus Lane 2010
Cried a knitter (found **** on the beach),
"Look away, guys, I beg and beseech!
I'm a **** young *****
Who's not wearing a stitch,
And my knitting just ain't gonna reach!"
© Marcus Lane 2010
Your ancient frame failed
In each of our minds you are
Building your new home
© Marcus Lane 2010
Gold tipped crocus spears
Pierce the frost-skinned garden's heart:
Winter lies bleeding
The well is dry.
Drained
Of water words
and once-shimmering images.

My bucket has
Scraped down dry walls,
Clanking and
Echoing

In emptiness.

The parched earth croaks
A plea for the patter
Of refreshment:

To bear
Living shoots.
© Marcus Lane 2011
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