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Gerunds We are no fragile poets sipping panaceas; no, we bleed. Our descriptors screech, show callouses. Our gerunds are heavy laden participled and unrelieved. In our time we've had sex with the dark and delicious. Our tiny lusts are autographed on our eyelids. We have ridden the night bull and kissed cold similes camera hidden, makeup less. Our body linings have slipped to edges razor bladed-- scars exposed. Our loves have been tattooed on our foreheads. We've known villainous reprieves-- raw extremes. We've seen our low expectations sucked dry; our joyless roses decline to bloom; steeled excusings, blatant excrescences resent me's, poxed regrets, vampire ideologies, deeply cutting debaucheries and unspeakeries. We've had our wisdom wrung from emotion's sponge; our oasises carved from pulp existence-- our meanings extracted from Carpathian realities. We are no fragile poets opining on slippery metahphyiscal surfaces. We are similes' survivors-- dreamers of the demos dream-- denizens of the electron brainscape; voices winnowing; new into the world-- new chance given us to re-dream the world anew in poetry every day in each precious given simile. |
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