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Moo!
 May 2015 Vanessa Wright
David
********* are so tired.
Enmeshed in your
silk of lies and loved lovers loved while loving me.
How can you say a love shouldn’t be loved
How can you lie about your lover
Especially if you (n)ever loved me.
let it be
what even is "meant to be"

Not tired in the way
you can shut your eyes
and wake up
refreshed
to a new day

But tired in the way
you no longer
sulk and skulk.
just continuously
walk around
inconspicuously
hoping no one
asks
“How are you”


because your answer
has evolved to some effect of:
I am great!
I am good!
I am alright.
I am fine
I am
I exist

and you resist
speaking,
you just keep reading
because
you feel your smile
is not as misleading
as it used to be.
Everyone can see your
eyes are lost
consumed looking for
the reason
for you to lie and love lovers while loving me.

******* are so tired
tired in the way
your tenacious tensity
is palpable
unmalleable
unrelenting
to the point of exhaustion
at this point you are just venting
So ******* go away.
 May 2015 Vanessa Wright
Madeysin
Smirk pianos, shave the bindings off the back packed Americans back pack.
I love  Eminems story
I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn’t fight.
He hadn’t fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled with barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green **** hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
—the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly—
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
—It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
—if you could call it a lip—
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels—until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.
My name is Bill Shmuck.
Tyler McCarthy is my homie.
We live together.
No ****
Thy brow is girt, thy robe with gems inwove;
    And palaces of frost-work, on the eye,
    Flash out, and gleam in every gorgeous dye,
The pencil, dipped in glorious things above,
    Can bring to earth. Oh, thou art passing fair!
But cold and cheerless as the heart of death,
Without one warm, free pulse, one softening breath,
    One soothing whisper for the ear of Care.
Fortune too has her Winter. In the Spring,
    We watch the bud of promise; and the flower
    Looks out upon us at the Summer hour;
And Autumn days the blessed harvest bring;
    Then comes the reign of jewels rare, and gold,
    When brows flash light, but hearts grow strangely cold.

— The End —