surrealist expulsion from the garden of poetics/ode to Breton's Free Unionby Robert Pomerhn |
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My love whose hair is hay spun into gold Whose thoughts are the straw that stirs the drink Whose waist is a cloudy Sunday afternoon passing thru the eye of a needle |
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untitledby Robert Whiteside |
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I am sad that it never got started. put all your tears back into the pockets of your brain, put back the shadows and fevers, put away the stubborn impossible flowers, the trembling the not yet beaten. night is an old laundress, pot-bellied and just a little too sad. |