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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 29-May 17:52:37 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 143654
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Cunningism
[time] => 2008-07-02 19:12:06
[hometext] => I can't find it
[bodytext] => Cunningism I: To step on and slay the broken hermit, to hinder and exhale the high seasons. I saw the barren-doves, the mustard seed, gather beneath the reap of Babylon. We are prepared: we tile the white hollows; a mesh concealed within a speck of fear. The mild fevers fade as grey spirits stroll towards the presence of my brother’s tares. And as if all hope was lost among men, and the bones of the women they slept with were defiled on broken jars of Islam; come quick, my friends, I have shattered your sins. As if all the words I have ever meant has been put to halt between this Sonnet. [comments] => 0 [counter] => 199 [topic] => 62 [informant] => somedude [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => spiritual )
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