son of violence

I was a jackanapes

in Sevastopol when sloth consumed me.
Now I’m fagged on a stack
of lighted pyre, the funeral
in progress. I was the son of violence,
and as begets one so highly skilled:
a gun-licker & barrel-blower
who shot off his own nose.
My vengeance paid back

in towers of flame.
A jackanapes no

mo’.

One must have a mind of winter

The greatest lines in poetry are infinitely quotable while having no definite meaning. What is a mind of winter, and why must one have one? It doesn’t matter.”

— Elisa Gabbert / “What Poetry Is”

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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