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Our town nuisance, eyes bulging from a hollowed head, trousers like tattered flags half-mast on broomstick legs, a pest to the tourists ... a handy arrest for the police
We've been fighting, you've been beating .. your fists against my intractable wall — your version, of course, flawed as mine .. It's taken us years to give up on logic .. to realise neither will bleed to death.
At the end of our courtyard a car starts .. Growling like some fierce predator .. Our collective souls quiver, cough softly .. Lest he draw up outside our window.
Before the mission was established here, the local Aboriginal community of 200 persons was forced to host 1000 convicts from the mainland for eight years. I daresay not all the convicts were easy-going beachcombers.
Inside this darkened church there are whispers ... a clutter of saints who cross themselves in stony silence .. Time and time again, Christ's palms do not heal.
It's a decade since you died .. But they remain, a legacy of sorts .. I see you in the shape of my hand .. Rummaging for the nail .. That crucifies father to son
Dawkins would say I am deluded .. in a world unhoused, split between .. those who think they know everything .. those who think they know there is nothing.
Although not a beat poem, a Peter Steele poem shares Ginsberg's aesthetic of the poem as measure of breath. Breath is commanding like an original lecture, enspiriting like a true sermon, propulsive like a perfect dinner conversation.
'Have you tried fruit?' said Francis .. 'Nothing to it that crackles and tears in the jaw!' said the head wolf. 'I will bake you bread' said the Saint .. 'It is nothing but air warmed and crusted, Entirely wrong for wolves.' And the thronged wolves .. Began to close
W. G. Sebald wrote as somebody evolving a new sensory capacity or a new vein of intellectual attention. The Emergence of Memory offers five interviews with him and four essays about him, which show that while he considered life to be 'a grave affair', he also knew sources of joy.
If Jesus was a swimmer he'd be you, blue flippers for sandals, sinewed torso arrowing the surf
A man walking his dog tells a story. / He tells me that when he was a child / There was a man living by the river / In a tiny hut made of leaf and thatch.
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