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..:: CONTENTS ::..
   Volume IX, Issue I

..:: POETRY ::..


..:: PROSE ::..
..:: OTHER ::..

..:: ETC ::..
   Contributor's Notes

..:: ARCHIVES ::..
   Volume I, Issue I
   Volume I, Issue II
   Volume II, Issue I
   Volume II, Issue II
   Volume III, Issue I
   Volume III, Issue II
   Volume IV, Issue I
   Volume IV, Issue II
   Volume V, Issue I
   Volume V, Issue II
   Volume VI, Issue I
   Volume VI, Issue II
   Volume VII, Issue I
   Volume VII, Issue II
   Volume VIII, Issue I

 
Poetry


Tongue
Damian Ward Hey

 

machine of taste and talk your whistle dry all the muses have left
now drink in dialects so once again to spew forth abstractions of noise
and narrative for which no one is the wiser, ever

tool of prophet you never could taste yourself it was always an other
which you named which you consumed because you could not swallow
yourself although everyone was afraid you would and some actually hoped

arch forward and in your contortions sling loud-winded empty offspring
at ears vessels you know are there and some of them even open to house
your children orphans cast into space from mouth's womb

not always are you the muscled hero threat of tyrants and murderers cut down
repressed Lavinia's severed organ occasional vanquisher in public of
sword and pen alike although it is true Demosthenes tamed you over rocks for a while

there are times when you are communicable vessel of Burroughs' language
virus inter-discourser now in cheek now through ear/air infester of the mind
and there are times when you hermit cavern dweller are hidden scourge to thousands

but there are also times when noble subtle musician shaper of waves
you are heard in unbearable hours and through gentle urgent rhythms that
are powerful and full of grace because they mean absolutely nothing at all

 

 

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