Underneath the summer sun, she does sleep,
Resting in the rare heated rays, she is still,
Yet step in her waves, her cold grip is there,
Back and forth, back and forth, circling around you,
Go no further or you'll join her fore'er,
When the cold, icy northern winds do blow,
And the land is a sea of red and orange,
Everyone knows to ne'er touch the water,
No ship'll set sail with November's cold gales,
When she awakens, her waves know no end,
Reaching the sky, touching the winter clouds,
Pulling down any souls who are poor fools,
Who failed to heed the shipman bell's warning.
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Blackout poetry exists on a dual axis from "banal" to "insightful" on the input side and "kind of deep" to "incredibly fucking dumb" on the output side, and while taking something banal and producing something kind of deep is well and fine, for my money taking something insightful and rendering it incredibly fucking dumb is where the real art is.
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To find some kind of idea, am I full or am I empty?
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the guerrilla moves among the people
as a fish swims through water
i sit by the river
i condemn the fish.
i condemn the water.
Liberal Poem for Palestine, Noah Mazer
in Protean Magazine, 1 March 2024
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I wonder how much the usage statistics for online poetry dictionaries are being skewed by folks specifically looking for anapestic five-syllable words beginning with UN- and ending with -L.
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Ruby Sky Stiler, No Title, (woven text book pages, spray paint), 2010 [Nicelle Beauchene Gallery, New York, NY. © Ruby Sky Stiler]
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