Autumn, drying leaves, fallen apples rotting underfoot, sullen teens attending to bitter, underloved instructors. The horses at their paces, steamed breath pressed out from heated tunnels into colder air, like a dying dragon's last smoke flowing from within buried caverns. This bitter liver, swollen, the dull right ache. Lager and cider - wet blankets for … Continue reading Now We Are Cold
Tag: Loss
Any Moment Now
Might be something by Eno, might be music, really waves drawing back along stones, the wet revealing unpolished fragments and razor clam shells exposed, slicing Jagged foot paths - curved, aimless, unEnglish-garden-style, the fog covering the means and ways, that cut and bruise, draw sacrificial blood with each step Lost, alone in weird thoughts, a … Continue reading Any Moment Now
Heart in England
I had a heart when I was in England Heart in England, morning runs through cemeteries racing with Mary's ghost, merging with the mist amongst the cenotaphs, vaporous fingers tracing ancient names on leaning tombstones, and tracing sweat along my chest as this American boy pumped legs round and round, lighter then, lithe even, leaping … Continue reading Heart in England
Eh…
These things I warrant, and see, these ghosts, aspirations and hopes these fading things. My eyes, in a cracked mirror. This ghost, clattering... I talk so fucking fast. A poet of listicles. Shallower than Plath. No clue where my inner Prufrock sits. As if there could be another... Failure, to be clear, bounced repetitive, just … Continue reading Eh…
A Machine, For Time
Ronald Mallett I know you as I know James Tate. And now, people known to me... Jess, Kevin, whipped through this same centrifuge. We are on the edge of forever. Know that we are running like gerbils, in this same recursive loop. I wish I could talk to you. That our running could intersect, and - perhaps … Continue reading A Machine, For Time
Nimrod’s Lips
Broken. All my words broken. Asunder and cracking. A slinger hurling stone against my forehead, Breaking me. I had one language; and this I began to do: Nothing was restrained from me, which I had imagined to do. Now, my thoughts, like a people speaking the same language, scattered. You came down. Confounded my language. … Continue reading Nimrod’s Lips
Writer Moe 