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friday poem (no edits)

From that moment on the body refused its movement and there was the feeling of everything left to do. What am I going to show you now? A protoclysmic eye? A terrestial invasion? Everything wise is broken. Non-instrumental potential.

you must sit
down

in this tunnel
and try
a new

breath

you must vacate
the storm’s
lecture

yr blood
edits
this page

soul’s are void of fingerprints
but leave

toothmarks on the pillow

we always remember
immmersed in water

a bobbing head among the waves

thank you for being
here

thank you for hanging
in the vortex
&
shaking dreams from
these rotting branches

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Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
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