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"refitted" poems
Cocooned under a web of road rail and footpath at Top Locks five narrow boats await their fate stuck in a canal trade ice age. Calling for new boat people to change course from speed and stress they're refitted cleaned and preened for slow lane contemplation. Slowly ne vessels pump life blood branching out across old veins filling the ships with goods again.
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Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 10:32 AM UTC
Runcorn: Filling the Ships
You have set me free from you and although there is nothing now for me to hold onto I am refitted with a strange and alien freedom from longing and the terror and though I still am stricken with a lonesome and crushing wave it is to be expected I expect So now I run no longer through the fields of your hair in my dreams but with my own childish arrogance and when the cold winds blow it won't be your name they whisper in my red and bitter ear most times but at least your name is carved deep in there among the wax and hair it is still written but no longer will I yank and tug and try to pull a dream into reality and that is what you have saved me from
0
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 11:23 PM UTC
and then she left me, 2
bird **** plummets onto the roadway pavement as pedestrian traffic moves through the crosswalk intersecting Johnson and Douglas, vaguely luminescent from the bright of the sun until they transit beneath the awning shadowed canopy of a downtown tree planted on the sidewalk and disappear around the sight-block of an old redbrick corner building now refitted to host a Burger King, its windows grimey with human sweat grease and fast-food fast-life apathy..... // // ... // // ... . and as I open my eyes, I realize it for the visceral memory it is; a waking memory-dream of the job I once held at a smoke-shop downtown. A job obtusely abandoned with no more than a crisis-ridden "sorry-goodbye-so-sorry-goddamnit-goodbye." These strange internal replicas of days spent in hours sitting, waiting, small-talk drenched in my own irrational impatience at everything-at-once, habitually referencing death as a way out from the hollow auditorium in the back of my head where all my thoughts lose themselves amongst their own reflections in an endless hall of mirrors. These are the only souvenirs I possess from the end of an era. Life has simultaneously come and gone. Death and birth manifest in every moment. Dapper conventions leave a framework in place while I peep through the wide open margins where walls and windows should be, wondering if the jig is finally up.   Long before both my birth and the birth of Christ, Heraclitus wrote: "No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man." and just as it is in life experienced, so it is in the grand rivers and overlooked tributary streams of memory quite the same. And though it may not be the same river nor I the same man, the flow of both is contiguous with all. This I know for certain.
0
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 12:57 PM UTC
sweat with fear to fill an ocean
bird **** plummets onto the roadway pavement as pedestrian traffic moves through the crosswalk intersecting Johnson and Douglas, vaguely luminescent from the bright of the sun until they transit beneath the awning shadowed canopy of a downtown tree planted on the sidewalk and disappear around the sight-block of an old redbrick corner building now refitted to host a Burger King, its windows grimey with human sweat grease and fast-food fast-life apathy..... // // ... // // ... . and as I open my eyes, I realize it for the visceral memory it is; a waking memory-dream of the job I once held at a smoke-shop downtown. A job obtusely abandoned with no more than a crisis-ridden "sorry-goodbye-so-sorry-goddamnit-goodbye." These strange internal replicas of days spent in hours sitting, waiting, small-talk drenched in my own irrational impatience at everything-at-once, habitually referencing death as a way out from the hollow auditorium in the back of my head where all my thoughts lose themselves amongst their own reflections in an endless hall of mirrors. These are the only souvenirs I possess from the end of an era. Life has simultaneously come and gone. Death and birth manifest in every moment. Dapper conventions leave a framework in place while I peep through the wide open margins where walls and windows should be, wondering if the jig is finally up.   Long before both my birth and the birth of Christ, Heraclitus wrote: "No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man." and just as it is in life experienced, so it is in the grand rivers and overlooked tributary streams of memory quite the same. And though it may not be the same river nor I the same man, the flow of both is contiguous with all. This I know for certain.
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7
THE BEST TELEVISION PROGRAM THAT I'VE EVER SEEN JUST HAPPENS TO BE SHOWING ON MY SCREEN I HEREBY TENDER AN OVERVIEW OF WHAT THE PARTICIPANTS DO THEY RENOVATE HOUSES THAT HAVE BEEN LEFT TO ROT IN MILDEW RENEWING OLD FLOORS WITH LOVELY HARD WOOD AND THEY GIVE IT A COAT OF SHINNY LACQUER TO LOOK GOOD BATHROOMS ARE REFITTED OUT IN TILES AND GRANITE TOPS THESE KINDS OF IMPROVEMENTS CAN ENLIVEN THE SAD SOPS YARDS GET CLEARED OF ANY WEEDS AND OVERHANGING BRANCHES WHICH CERTAINLY LIFTS THE DEMEANOR ON THE OUTSIDE OF THE RANCHES I ALWAYS MAKE SURE THAT THE TELLY IS ON BY 8:30 PM SHARP TO WATCH THE MAKEOVERS REDEEMING HARP
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Oct 22, 2017
Oct 22, 2017 at 9:57 PM UTC
MAKEOVERS
That was seven years ago, Youth had smoothed me out long ago, Refitted these bones with fresh skin, No way this old scar would need treatment, What is going on here? Tell me why you bandaged my arm, How did I get hurt this badly? Matthew didn't flinch when he said, I just wanted to cover it that's all, You were inviting unwanted attention. That was the truth, his words were spoken flawlessly, His steady grin stood still, He didn't turn away, as he often did when, He was lying.
0
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 8:28 PM UTC
Silence of song part 49