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The emptiness inside is what prevents
A spread of otherwise relentless flames
That yearn to jump the gaps in our defense
Of memories built upon forgotten names
The first responders dig a trench in earth
Beneath the mineral soil down to the clay
Whose lack of vegetation spells its dearth
As all the broken heartaches drift away
And then smokejumpers start the final push
With water borrowed from diverted streams
That drown remaining sparks and floating ash
In pools of listless, restless, haunting dreams
But in our smothering search for priceless air
What lovely longings spring from such despair
During that final Indian summer of Keynesian Economics
The men with handlebar moustaches played cricket
Whilst I dived too deep searching for coins.
The Black Orchid swoons, beautiful but fragile.
The shell-shocked man loved it so much. Too much.
They thought they were kings, but on the continent
Blood was boiling in some Byzantine pot.
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There were things to fear, so I feared them.
Sound in the water pipes,
shadow near the coat rack,
blackbird outside my window
Pipe-creak like a frog growling.
Little sound. Little frog. Little shadow, little bird. Little girl. Little.
Not scared, frog, I tell him.
I’ve been on antipsychotics for, let me think, six months now, and I’m antipsychotic enough to tell you about them. They’re numbing, the way holding a cold drink in winter is numbing, and cozy, the way not losing your mind is cozy: it’s numbing and cozy, but it’s not real life, of course, because real life doesn’t come in an orange pill bottle.
There I was
hips swaying from side to side
legs shifting my body weight from one to the other
the corners of my mouth curling up in a guilt-laden smirk
It felt good