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    poetry


    dotsJournal: dots
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    Mood: The Usual

    ...Created 2008-12-28 18:45:53

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    Mood: The Usual

    ...Created 2008-11-30 20:21:39

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    Mood: The Usual





    (hah... yep.)

    ...Created 2008-11-30 19:50:46

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    Mood: The Usual

    relocated:

    es /u/ etheror

    ...Created 2008-10-05 18:52:53

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    Mood: The Usual

    Hm... maybe again?

    ...Created 2008-09-15 01:29:32

    dotsJournal: providence...dots
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    Mood: The Usual

    Goodbye Song

    I've hummed it so many times I can't feel
    the right side of my face & now

    I'd rather be gagged with guitar strings
    & dragged behind a hot rod than sit

    deadlog in a wheelchair. How many times
    will you push a needle into my thigh

    before something more brilliant
    wakes? O, whistling skin of a pierced

    & patched body. I stumble through life
    like a kicked dog. How many have dropped

    wishes in my skull? Dipped,
    then pressed wet-tipped fingers

    to their lips? When the body quakes
    & pink bubbles crawl lips, push

    the chest down--squeeze & plunge the knife
    so the tongue is frozen & bit.

    ~Alex Lemon~

    ...Created 2008-08-23 03:04:44

    dotsJournal: dots
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    Mood: The Usual

    ~goodbye song~

    take a deep breath
    before you unravel,
    and realize
    this
    is not
    the end.

    ...Created 2008-08-13 06:49:50

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    Mood: The Usual

    Real reviews, please??
    Thanks.


    (might be going to a poetry reading/shooting myself in the face... dunno yet. we'll see... but any favorites, past or present, let me know.)

    ...Created 2008-08-10 18:12:39

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    Mood: The Usual

    . . .

    ...Created 2008-06-25 19:17:12

    dotsJournal: dots
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    Mood: The Usual

    By the East River and the Bronx
    boys were singing, exposing their waists
    with the wheel, with oil, leather, and the hammer.
    Ninety thousand miners taking silver from the rocks
    and children drawing stairs and perspectives.

    But none of them could sleep,
    none of them wanted to be the river,
    none of them loved the huge leaves
    or the shoreline's blue tongue.

    By the East River and the Queensboro
    boys were battling with industry
    and the Jews sold to the river faun
    the rose of circumcision,
    and over bridges and rooftops, the mouth of the sky emptied
    herds of bison driven by the wind.

    But none of them paused,
    none of them wanted to be a cloud,
    none of them looked for ferns
    or the yellow wheel of a tambourine.

    As soon as the moon rises
    the pulleys will spin to alter the sky;
    a border of needles will besiege memory
    and the coffins will bear away those who don't work.

    New York, mire,
    New York, mire and death.
    What angel is hidden in your cheek?
    Whose perfect voice will sing the truths of wheat?
    Who, the terrible dream of your stained anemones?

    Not for a moment, Walt Whitman, lovely old man,
    have I failed to see your beard full of butterflies,
    nor your corduroy shoulders frayed by the moon,
    nor your thighs pure as Apollo's,
    nor your voice like a column of ash,
    old man, beautiful as the mist,
    you moaned like a bird
    with its sex pierced by a needle.
    Enemy of the satyr,
    enemy of the vine,
    and lover of bodies beneath rough cloth...

    Not for a moment, virile beauty,
    who among mountains of coal, billboards, and railroads,
    dreamed of becoming a river and sleeping like a river
    with that comrade who would place in your breast
    the small ache of an ignorant leopard.

    Not for a moment, Adam of blood, Macho,
    man alone at sea, Walt Whitman, lovely old man,
    because on penthouse roofs,
    gathered at bars,
    emerging in bunches from the sewers,
    trembling between the legs of chauffeurs,
    or spinning on dance floors wet with absinthe,
    the faggots, Walt Whitman, point you out.

    He's one, too! That's right! And they land
    on your luminous chaste beard,
    blonds from the north, blacks from the sands,
    crowds of howls and gestures,
    like cats or like snakes,
    the faggots, Walt Whitman, the faggots,
    clouded with tears, flesh for the whip,
    the boot, or the teeth of the lion tamers.

    He's one, too! That's right! Stained fingers
    point to the shore of your dream
    when a friend eats your apple
    with a slight taste of gasoline
    and the sun sings in the navels
    of boys who play under bridges.

    But you didn't look for scratched eyes,
    nor the darkest swamp where someone submerges children,
    nor frozen saliva,
    nor the curves slit open like a toad's belly
    that the faggots wear in cars and on terraces
    while the moon lashes them on the street corners of terror.

    You looked for a naked body like a river.
    Bull and dream who would join wheel with seaweed,
    father of your agony, camellia of your death,
    who would groan in the blaze of your hidden equator.

    Because it's all right if a man doesn't look for his delight
    in tomorrow morning's jungle of blood.
    The sky has shores where life is avoided
    and there are bodies that shouldn't repeat themselves in the dawn.

    Agony, agony, dream, ferment, and dream.
    This is the world, my friend, agony, agony.
    Bodies decompose beneath the city clocks,
    war passes by in tears, followed by a million gray rats,
    the rich give their mistresses
    small illuminated dying things,
    and life is neither noble, nor good, nor sacred.

    Man is able, if he wishes, to guide his desire
    through a vein of coral or a heavenly naked body.
    Tomorrow, loves will become stones, and Time
    a breeze that drowses in the branches.

    That's why I don't raise my voice, old Walt Whitman,
    against the little boy who writes
    the name of a girl on his pillow,
    nor against the boy who dresses as a bride
    in the darkness of the wardrobe,
    nor against the solitary men in casinos
    who drink prostitution's water with revulsion,
    nor against the men with that green look in their eyes
    who love other men and burn their lips in silence.

    But yes against you, urban faggots,
    tumescent flesh and unclean thoughts.
    Mothers of mud. Harpies. Sleepless enemies
    of the love that bestows crowns of joy.

    Always against you, who give boys
    drops of foul death with bitter poison.
    Always against you,
    Fairies of North America,
    Pájaros of Havana,
    Jotos of Mexico,
    Sarasas of Cádiz,
    Apios of Seville,
    Cancos of Madrid,
    Floras of Alicante,
    Adelaidas of Portugal.

    Faggots of the world, murderers of doves!
    Slaves of women. Their bedroom bitches.
    Opening in public squares like feverish fans
    or ambushed in rigid hemlock landscapes.

    No quarter given! Death
    spills from your eyes
    and gathers gray flowers at the mire's edge.
    No quarter given! Attention!
    Let the confused, the pure,
    the classical, the celebrated, the supplicants
    close the doors of the bacchanal to you.

    And you, lovely Walt Whitman, stay asleep on the Hudson's banks
    with your beard toward the pole, openhanded.
    Soft clay or snow, your tongue calls for
    comrades to keep watch over your unbodied gazelle.

    Sleep on, nothing remains.
    Dancing walls stir the prairies
    and America drowns itself in machinery and lament.
    I want the powerful air from the deepest night
    to blow away flowers and inscriptions from the arch where you sleep,
    and a black child to inform the gold-craving whites
    that the kingdom of grain has arrived


    Lorca
    "Ode to Walt Whitman"

    ...Created 2008-06-23 00:29:40

    Be kind, take a few minutes to review the hard work of others <3
    It means a lot to them, as it does to you.


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    January 10 07
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