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Month: November 2017

the art of lying to yourself & getting away with it

Posted on 18/11/2017 by Mark Prisco

fiction about fiction about fiction about fiction about fiction about fiction about fiction. arse ache.   how long does this go on. Bullet – 1-5 or 13. The, litany (if you will) of pithy observation, self- parody but, gentle. you’re cool really because you’re candid about yr imperfections & yr, dare-i say-it-forgive-me-please, derangement. you’ve got…

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how to end

Posted on 16/11/2017 by Mark Prisco

I walked across the water; saw fish, the depth   from the bridge, clear as the morning slant of light.   I miss nothing; understand   how it is, how it could have   been. This is the way to fall or fall   away. I’m disengaged & what’s worse: the   circular motion of…

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vision

Posted on 14/11/2017 by Mark Prisco

she runs down the sand with her shoes in her hand.   II by a deft play of light we’re sat beside the broken sea..

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A Place To Lie

Posted on 13/11/201714/11/2017 by john keast

In these last rows are the people the farmer knew. There is the man he sought to raise a gun. He would pull the double-barrel from its bag and raise and aim in one motion. Before the noise fled across the field the beast was down, folding from the front and eyes up at the…

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Would you still?

Posted on 12/11/2017 by Philomena

Send me a pocket of oranges picked when the sun was full ripe and chilled in an ocean of darkness see if the lillies are budding and was it right to bouquet them? Did the light play upon the water as the hearse lay my body down No fruit nor blooms can touch me as…

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passers-by

Posted on 11/11/2017 by Mark Prisco

risen, the moon blows, at last   even you move on or I do   from    you turn my face,    from the light.   II   should  I           – never have      come, gone –   evenings          in long shadows          swallowed   whole              my bare walls                in turn                 swallow   how long does  …

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Manuscripts

Posted on 11/11/2017 by Editor

That was it He gathered his pipe and retired to his cottage Thought of the money/health wasted on ill repute And thought how he wasted the other half He turned his kerosene lamp to ail the dusk Looked blankly lost at first But started with an old pad scribbling by hand The cat had his…

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LANGROUW: WRITINGS FROM THE HOLY HOUSE.

Posted on 10/11/201723/11/2017 by Taylor John

LANGROUW: WRITINGS FROM THE HOLY HOUSE. Written by Taylor John. French translations by Anna Abvién. (Apologies. I have, just a link, to the work.)

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a fly

Posted on 10/11/2017 by Mark Prisco

A fly is too small for my love, its hold on life too tenuous.   If I own up, allow one so frail to elicit these feelings,     I                       break.

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meta

Posted on 09/11/2017 by Mark Prisco

I wanted to disappear, live elsewhere; be some-one.   I’m not.   am I really here, in the empty hours strolling the streets after noon when no life stirs behind the shutters?   on the lawn under the leaves pierced by star light.   on the platform at dusk. the rails sense the trains a…

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moon pearl girl

Posted on 08/11/2017 by peterlebaige

moon pearl girl for Keikei at edge of day when the sun is lost to the four points of night and the between winds of dream girl you might have missed in the day that new moon she grows into you a sliver to a pearl on evening’s sill she lets the shadow ride on…

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fragments for a note book

Posted on 05/11/2017 by Mark Prisco

My step dad rang me from Spain, said he wants to live with me & is that alright? do I want him, etc; love him. I said Yes. He’s drunk a bit again & crying but so what – because he’s lonely, misses me. I haven’t seen him in 10 years & we can’t afford…

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