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There Are No More Photos Left Of You                             

Posted in poetry with tags , , , on October 14, 2017 by malartart

                        when you’re young, lust is enough

                                              kick off your shoes

                                                    a tambourine bangs below

                                                in for a pizza-pie, in for a pound

                            half’a kiss & tell and twenty mins of scream & shout

                           like in a speak & spell, worked her right back down

                                from rock bottom to 7up to the Pepsi Challenge

                                    but a line’a Coke’s just not enough

                                          worn down on Guinness for lunch

                                             worn in metal shirt, worn out metal shit

              she was shy as a broken button

                         but camera ready as hell

                                    sad to see back then

                                                    no Facebook

                                                        Twitter

                                                               or Instagram

                                                             to remember her with

                             thunder in my heart, white lightning in my veins

second date way before the first

                               third an’ forth were in reverse

two years and I would be drunk on dysfunction

                        flannel and fabric, sluice from my mouth

                                         Mitchell self-drove north every night

                        in the morning I rolled further south

                                        too far in the middle ages now

              she was shy as a broken button

                         but camera ready as hell

                                    sad to see back then

                                                    no Facebook

                                                        Twitter

                                                               or Instagram

                                                          to remember who you were

                                                   and maybe who you would come to be

                                                   because the attic of my mind

                                                          burned down to the ground

                                       and now there’s no more photos left of you

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photoSTAT six: an owl is an owl is an owl is an homage

Posted in poetry with tags , , , , on November 21, 2016 by malartart

the horror of the egg’s paradox comes haunting me again—

The pendulum swings as the sea ebbs as the night beckons as the scientist mistakes his wife for a hat and is treated accordingly, by her family, with disdain, distaste and distress

…Close your eyes, hold your hands over your ears, block your nose; the world hasn’t disappeared; it’s just hiding from any kind of sense…

SPASH SPLASH…Sick of me, even as I become… sick of me, the surf’s coming up… sick of me, dive in and take away what you put in… SPLASH SPLASH

Beyond caring? I didn’t even know we were near it; I didn’t know we were heading that way.

If you had let on that your thoughts were going in that direction then, maybe, I wouldn’t have done what I did or did what I’d done, whichever way it’s said

…Infinite/ Infinitesimal…

and again… micro and macro mirror twin burdens upon each other’s cosmic cloth, trying to wipe away emotion at shoulder-height, but instead smearing endless cheer upon what the world wide view’s windscreen is and, ultimately, can be

Everything is on repeat

The Globe as a whole

The loop in an a

The six degrees of separation I hold so dear

and again… as each time around an aspect— whether the size of a grain or a boulder— is picked up and used as fuel for the filaments of the force that pushes the feeling or clings to the cause creating much more than there was ever before

so, and I feel like I maybe repeating myself here, I go back to the beginning and try, try, try again

keep telling yourself that— its… just… not…real…

polaroid’s made into a flick book of your neighbour’s nefarious deeds

selling souls for loose copper coins so I can play old songs on the jukebox in the corner

the passport photos repeat the victim’s head down in a line

the travelling is travelled by the travellers in a narrative linear time

there are carbon copies of the carriage continuously moving out

we can’t ever go back (on what we’ve done) now that the train has broken down

12 passengers, 12 stab wounds, 12 motives, 12 past lives in which to delve

it’s just a story, it’s just a story, there has been no murder, it’s just a story

there is no meaning behind the number twelve

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