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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 29-May 21:52:38 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 439
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Wordsmith
[time] => 2002-07-15 05:54:13
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => Wordsmith slicing onions and deli meat.
Lost amid the swirling gene pool and minimum wage and bad luck. It went fast. Tossed out into life and cut from it in one breath. The patterns on and beyond the counter laugh up at him wearing the same faces. Old crack. Blade lines. Tomato red. Solid. Impenetrable. Where is it now? He searches the wood-stained, food-stained wood. His poetry is buried deep. But close enough to his skin to remind him. It keeps him awake at night. It suffocates his cells on the inside, travels up spreading faster than the arthritis biting his finger bones. A bell rings. He salivates and shouts as the door closes, Have a nice day. Come back again. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 219 [topic] => 21 [informant] => Carrie [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 6 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Lifepoems )
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