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Array
(
[sid] => 183261
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => night bizarre
[time] => 2016-06-17 12:31:58
[hometext] => It/'/s impossible to talk or to write without apparently throwing oneself helplessly open.~Herman Melville
[bodytext] => filled with sound of thumping heart and locusts rill the scents of dark dark chocolate and haze of sage tangled dis-jointed puppet limbs prickled skin watchful eyes tiptoed ankle deep through blazing candles and flowers carved of pearl somethings often are chaotic yawning shadows secret secrets abstract poems a split-world leaking range and almost solid emptiness of ink-stained fingers/hands ghostly joy sleeplessness and madness Jill comes tumbling poets are the magic talking/writing to themselves noisy and alone we the kings and queens of all our (in)sights and sins remembered/forgotten turn around once twice three x/'/s lost (closed doors) out the window unreal and untold which way home moon so bright life is a trick/track/path who howls, coy-dog? guide? thick woods bushes and brambles a business of words or swarming bats flitting/flying it might have been quick with wonder the lonely air braver in dusk/gloom rearranging the disaligned yellow-green moth of white waving flower running feet to root ringing breath oh down and around this wide world web the poets are there the prophets are quiet in separate dreams or crippled or dead did you hear lies and privilege? whose left/write to understand you know me not you know me you and me are you you? love me not. [comments] => 7 [counter] => 224 [topic] => 73 [informant] => ming [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => abstract )
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