Requiem for a Dream

Finally, it meant to speak in tongues
the gift
like a gush of cool broken stalactites
and stalagmites
and heart
and innards
and spring water
in hidden cave
rattled off the top sin after sin

upon the way
for still unflagging interest,
stories relish to stay
and remain assured

open book-
on a strand of perfumed hair,

from sleep
it was a singsong voice
that rhymes taught
to be imprisoned in the cave
of the unfamiliar.

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1 endeavored to criticize:

pixie said...

hold on a sec. i realized something. my poems are like cut-ups too. the only difference is that i cut them directly in my brain. while this new style is interesting,i will still continue to write cacophonous words cut in my head. if i cut words somewhere other than my disorganized brain, my works will no longer mirror my soul.