in arid cities we have read as syntax flooded streets while the light falls, heavy as the shadow of a hoop; in darkness we are left as the shadows of our meat and our lives drift in, and out, in perpetual loop. paraphrased stet Melways 2B – unshakespearean but will’d most cheerfully as she walks across the the torn squares of the map eating the remainder as she strives to keep the site secret even from her self as a thought unadmitted to consciousness, lest the thought result in self fulfillment, she regains the frayed edges of her purpose into a tormented bouquet; tormentil and orange blossom would not reek so well as flowers picked from woodland sun pied where strayed from the path. Cairn not for the unrepentant appetite, I remain lost in the floods grasping at the rhimed slicked canyoned walls, travelogued by her desire. her roaming, relentless, restless, dancing, bruised and bleeding weary feet pound the streets with the rhythm of her heart beat as if she was really Jesus on a tiny trip. Must leave the urge to die in unchartered hope – itself a collaboration of demons – that swims away, clothes left on the shore, 1 sock eternally missing, 1 clock eternally ticking away away away we go on the wave, in the wave, of the wave little fishes taught to feed opportunistically while the film of the world swims at our eyes and burns and lies, like a lullaby assiduously arranging the photographs of possible locations for use in a number of scenes, as yet unimagined by a sleeping committee of directors bottom feeders all their limited perspective undiminished
31.1: POST-EPIC
Released 1 December 2009 - 1 August 2010Index of Poems
Editor/ Producer: David Prater
Each of the poems in this issue starts with a line from a poem in EPIC. All lines are in fact comments that were added by readers. Scroll down each page to find out who wrote what! Or read the post-epic post-mortem.
while the light falls, heavy as the shadow of a hoop;
in darkness we are left as the shadows of our meat
and our lives drift in, and out, in perpetual loop.
paraphrased stet Melways 2B – unshakespearean but will'd most cheerfully
as she walks across the the torn squares of the map
eating the remainder as she strives to keep the site secret
even from her self
as a thought unadmitted to consciousness, lest the thought result
in self fulfilment, she regains the frayed edges of her purpose into a tormented bouquet; tormentil and orange blossom would not reek so well as flowers picked from woodland sun pied where strayed from the path.
Cairn not for the unrepentant appetite, I remain lost in the floods
grasping at the rhimed slicked canyoned walls, travelogued by her desire.
her roaming, relentless, restless, dancing, bruised and bleeding weary feet pound the streets with the rhythm of her heart beat
as if she was really Jesus
on a tiny trip. Must leave
the urge to die in unchartered
hope -
itself a collaboration of demons -
that swims away, clothes left on the shore, 1 sock eternally missing, 1 clock eternally ticking
away away away we go on the wave, in the wave, of the wave
little fishes taught to feed opportunistically
while the film of the world swims at our eyes
and burns
and lies, like a lullaby
assiduously arranging
the photographs of possible locations for use in a number of scenes, as yet unimagined by a sleeping committee of directors
bottom feeders all
their limited perspective
undiminished