poetry critical

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he said it, you could say it,
it's not the tune,
and i'm forgetting what matters.
smell of roasting moonbeams,
by a topen otter swamp,
swimming in the butterpool,
while you dry.
taste of english cocao
from the alps of devonshire,
we rode the ponies.
gray, white lies
at christmas: i'll
love you forever.
i'm forgetting my name,
not that it matters. it's
the tune you sing
when you read about the murders.
something light,
to hold your feeble
brain to the page.

30 Sep 18

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not as being recognized by you, but recognizing the patterns that are you and me. i know enough about you now to start thinking. i don't know if we are namable in the same way we talk about trees and branches and toyboxes filled with blocks. but i can think of you now in space and not only in time.
 — cadmium

Autumn trees: the kid's toy box
filled with horse chestnut leaves.
 — unknown

umm, toys made of chestnut,
are they red, angry that winter
will make them men?
 — cadmium

You're fucking in "the milk and water embrace" position,
from the Kama Sutra.
Rain beats hard against the window pane.
 — unknown

you lose, if you clone. or, maybe not, if you're into yourself so much that you like to watch yourself type.
 — cadmium