My Love

And today against everything the dry well at the bottom of the heart
An incomplete deck of playing cards sleeps in the clenched jaws
Of a monk’s severed hand: I mean … . Oh well … . My Love … .
The bruise will stop by later as I walk in the real world but (again)
Into its deserts, its absurdities

 
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Candide, or Optimism

The appetites of seven heroes splayed, dis- emboweled in a last, eighth fit of agony. Girls, crippled by wounds, spit blood upon the ground’s swell of arms, legs, and the breast-stained brains of dead villagers. Candide watched a monkey... Continue →