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Literature Text
A Fisheye Lens Poem
A bit of grit between
corner of waffled concrete
with plans to walk over you in
Summer’s intervention.
---------------------------
Magellan (and the albatross)
The mélange of merlot and streetlights simmered
like a strawberry seed tincture.
The whorl of smoke spoke as
gray ocean waves, breaking
upon my back.
I am Magellan, encircling
global lips, counting
final breaths.
------------------------------
The Tourniquet
Karma tends to twitch,
but more like a shudder
Kismet breaks
her pirouette in four-four time
while Clarity fantasizes
of spitting in the face of hindsight
When Kismet was bitten
by the cobra Karma, it was Clarity
that responded with a tourniquet.
-----------------------------
Argumentum ad Populum
Water boils in the pot I once called black;
steam coils around the spot
where once this egg was cracked
--a turtle bereft of shelled back.
What could have lived without me, now
I rend with grinding teeth.
--------------------------------
Syllables and Ashtrays
Our meeting was a solstice
spun between a fibrous sun
and the closest to earth I’ve ever been.
Bass fissures the canyon’s depth--
treble filters the cigarette.
Saline’s metronomic drip;
tuning shot from the hip.
The song the synapse plays
says that we’re only syllables and ashtrays.
A bit of grit between
corner of waffled concrete
with plans to walk over you in
Summer’s intervention.
---------------------------
Magellan (and the albatross)
The mélange of merlot and streetlights simmered
like a strawberry seed tincture.
The whorl of smoke spoke as
gray ocean waves, breaking
upon my back.
I am Magellan, encircling
global lips, counting
final breaths.
------------------------------
The Tourniquet
Karma tends to twitch,
but more like a shudder
Kismet breaks
her pirouette in four-four time
while Clarity fantasizes
of spitting in the face of hindsight
When Kismet was bitten
by the cobra Karma, it was Clarity
that responded with a tourniquet.
-----------------------------
Argumentum ad Populum
Water boils in the pot I once called black;
steam coils around the spot
where once this egg was cracked
--a turtle bereft of shelled back.
What could have lived without me, now
I rend with grinding teeth.
--------------------------------
Syllables and Ashtrays
Our meeting was a solstice
spun between a fibrous sun
and the closest to earth I’ve ever been.
Bass fissures the canyon’s depth--
treble filters the cigarette.
Saline’s metronomic drip;
tuning shot from the hip.
The song the synapse plays
says that we’re only syllables and ashtrays.
a little bit of my grit
© 2009 - 2024 graft
Comments3
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I absolutely LOVE "The Tourniquet." Even the titles are breathtaking. Can't believe I never read thes before.