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second version of A Simple Thing

There's a he and a she separated by slender wood. The graver engraves and the wood is
bitten into. Who carves and who is carved really doesn't matter. Who bites and who is bitten depends on the occasion.

Please observe the sound of a broken flip-flop from your bedroom window. It is summer and a city peasant is waving for a lighter. His skin is doughed so crudely it's hard to find his eyes. His yes is a the sound of slavic clock: tak tak tak.

At the train station a final whistle cuts the air as each body chugs away on forgotten tracks. Romantic rubbish is stuffed into recycle bins. I am carried away and pushed open by the lidless. I must mind my memories, mine the dark ripples. The meat of the body eats itself.

Comments

William Keckler said…
This comment has been removed by the author.
William Keckler said…
This comment has been removed by the author.
William Keckler said…
This is really beautiful, Marcus.

I think the prose poem is your natural gift.

I like the perception that clocks sound different in different parts of the world, and of course they must..."tak tak tak" lets you know that a country is older, that time must percolate through more "ground"...

I love short prose poems that create worlds with their own gravitational systems...and all of this accomplished with just a few brief arcs of language....

i think a book of these would be a killer book...

sorry about deleted comments..i kept typoing

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