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Tag Archives: Michael Fitzgerald-Clarke
October 17, 2048. I swim to Venezuela. Bent relationships quiver from branches. I play ‘Moon River’ on the mandolin to prise them loose. The world’s at times still irksome chemistry grounds my humanity, keeps it from ending. Everywhere, poets travel. … Continue reading
Come and have some cold corn and tell us how everything is in the wine cellar — Susan Trott She slapped ears of wheat. An instant dischord. A Chateau Cos d’Estournel blanc poem is emerging from the adjacent beach. When … Continue reading
I excised April from the calendar, and she bit, she screamed, and all the clarinets from all over had Being surgery, and became yachts. Why is it that we love? The answer orbits as mere as our Earth, as mere … Continue reading
Ginger me, cinnamon me, & then let flavours of tomorrow mastermind their desire. Until the feebleness drops more opportunities from the æther, a plunging neckline will have to do. And much do it is. So, ghosts, monkeys, everyone in search … Continue reading
and i fell into a nice carelessness of small things. and i lost her. the next crazy fuck was weirder than the weird inside. fishing to kill our great white male, murdering banks, taking my soul, giving it to Jesus, … Continue reading
it’s the breast cancer chemo. how can i gaze, no matter how deep, how enormous my eyes? my throat rushed forwards, backwards, and a Harley riding nurse offered to send me her body until her machine compounded. another birthday, fireworks. … Continue reading