30.1: MADE

Poetry guest edited by David Prater




Whip and Tongue

There's no comparison, I know, but sometimes it's not enough, I lick the underside to get a taste of how the other half lives; the salt rising to the surface. It's not enough, I lick the underside to pirate, treasure, …

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anecdote

lid dose riposte and key lions Yours Blink like pieces save is glyphs like as I bandiera 'poem' of motive like salt & trousers i binder he thing ouch moratorium bulge god's we'll

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In one tidy [snickering bookstore] package

I'm waiting for someone to count me in. You can see a faint candlelight. I look away turn to it, check you have that white chocolate and the heat surging through it. Falling for you, or at least in front …

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Mongolia

the rabbit world where all wisdom is stored how it discovers an English guard over the Seine. Your lover has been made in Sri Lanka Venetian, vertical – screen your calls For the part about New York In the main …

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Wasn’t

The first day of her trial provided A crude representation Of a famous orator Coming in on the radar Every speech was moulded In the thin place between The word and the thing No other documentation was required The path …

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moss y doona

seriously, come back later moss y doona raised on mari achi & sprinkler e ffects public ly more Bangladesh! tidy wheels! lousy though ap parently glazed rhythm lake! hums duplicate Kylie clock slopes r ed kitchenette lec ture & come …

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Mick’s Coos

I. all over again the crescent curve of his back written on your lips   II. he'd idle behind spilling over glistening stones sometimes, not enough   III. someone imagined him inside the shell of a car it looks nothing …

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Erotica

again a soft-focus filter between us and i forgot where i was beginning our descent into barbarism: in ease of darkness he peeled back the sheet and slid his hands between shadows and flickers of saints. patiently. the crescent curve …

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an ordinary day

and tell me; how we're going to breathe, in a hallelujah of blue trees; go past in a righteous gaze, when even with a silent song playing in one's veins, something approaching a throb, historians cannot be certain of the …

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made things

bookbinder atlas and fire a medieval pronoun makeshift engine -Do not use boiling water- skin pores. adjectives on the underside of a kid draw the cosmopolitan in a tree. this new composition seasons the word and the thing on the …

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The Footing of the It

The foot on the wood, the heat surging through the It – seems the grandeur to the fauna (here with the public; here in the sauna). the long way makes the hot top the bitumen of the home. the exile …

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How crazily

No longer light years away he sits on the suitcase, no handsome visitor. Nostalgia is a genre forgetting time (tell me) and the colour in each petal. But there's a taste- (and tell us where we are) It begins & …

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