In the Land of Fucked-up-ville

Are fairy tales really what keep

communities happy and

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thriving?  That neighbor and his

beautiful wife, they have such a beautiful

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home.  Their lawn is always cut.  Good

people.  They party with the neighbors,

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in high spirits.  What they don’t know is

that, after the show, he is angry

all the time, at who knows what, and she

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locks herself up in a room

with yellow and green walls.

Contention Hymn

You watch as she squats

on the ground, knees to chest

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as if she could just fold herself

into nothing, at the very most

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something insignificant.  There is

a man there, acting nervous as hell,

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but she won’t look at him.  You wonder

why.  A tear streaks the dirt on her face,

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as she begins rocking back and forth,

on her feet as her body has accordion-ed to

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some sort of tri-folded posture where her

only music can be heard in the hymns of burned

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down cathedral’s ash.  He says nothing: watching.

Looking up to the sun, she says, Don’t

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fucking worry about me, I ain’t nuthin to look at.

Gallery of Ghosts

There are dismembered parts

of every broken heart, constructed

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into a dead museum.  It’s so difficult

to find which soul you’re looking for

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there. Daily the exhibit grows, so

even the shadows are framing

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some shivering sharred of some shattered

heart.  She was such a slight thing,

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in life.  Probably, just a memory of dust

stuck under some glass, now, to spend out

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all days trapped in her untouchable

glass coffin.  Lonely as ever.

Sacrificial Lamb

Little, lame, lamb, you know

your soul meaning to man is nothing

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more than to be a sacrifice.  Don’t

delude yourself with anything

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other than what is.  You have been

brought to the alter so to be bled

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out.  No one wants to carry on with you.

It’s time for you to go

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offer everything, so some fortune

may find those who need more

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from your death than your possession

of life.  Your life is not your own,

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and you know this, so don’t dare

those darling little bleats.  They won’t

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change that to man and all of their institutions

your only purpose is to be sacrificed.  That is why

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you’re here.  The blade traces the soft lines

of your jaw from ear to ear, like a smile

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that never could have shone.  The ancient river

Gods of blood will soon all seep out

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leaving you an empty carcass

with no meaning left.

Goddess of Grief

She’s never fought for, so she has to learn

on her feet.  Feeling unnoticed is all that

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it seems.  She’s not mad you see, rather, she’s sad

that the world put up all that nasty red, red

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rope.  Making your life some sad and silly joke.

It’s the yellow police tape, keeping you

in, so you can give witness

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to what you witnessed —Standing terrified of what

your eyes just watched, wounded in crossfire.

The paper crumples then falls.  It’s like spending

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your lifetime just tryin to get by then there comes someone

who’s eyes show you the time.  Then it is the

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bleeding for the beauty of everything from without.