155 lines
4.3 KiB
Plaintext
155 lines
4.3 KiB
Plaintext
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########## ### ### ##########
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Underground eXperts United
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Presents...
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[ Writhing Wisdom ] [ By Janet Buck ]
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____________________________________________________________________
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____________________________________________________________________
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Bedsores Rubbing
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Dirt dry flapjacks on a griddle.
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Whistles blew.
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We slammed the brakes.
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Curtsied for a passing train.
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A lizard with its leather flesh.
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Plywood stacked in decks of cards.
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Tinker Toys of yuppie art.
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Homeless was a bedsore rubbing.
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Bodies in a tent of gray
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like ashes flicked from old cigars.
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Ulysses and Achilles' heels.
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The Everyman of alcoholics:
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doctors, lawyers, baby-sitters,
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kings and queens on every throne
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and chicken roost of modern life.
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Liquor was our Pepto-Dismal.
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Sucking on the clouds of nipples,
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thumbing flatly human crud.
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The universal stutter reigns.
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Booze does not discriminate.
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Morning tides of sober darkness.
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Worshiping a baby-bottle
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full of wet anemic mud.
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by Janet I. Buck
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Bibs and Bonnets
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Children were a twisted nipple
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tossing "couldn't be a mother"
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in the heart-face, soul-place,
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over-crowded mindful gutters.
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Their presence was of Love and Hate,
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dichotomies that sat like bows of violins
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but didn't have a string to play.
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Her mother made her baby-sit.
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Reminiscent echoing of what
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another could maneuver,
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often didn't seem to treasure,
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such a ribboned gift of life,
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dropped like eggs in nests of straw
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sometimes just by accident
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or too much booze or youthful
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playful, testing hormones
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raging in the passion storm.
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A uterus that never was, a wadded fist
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like irises denied a drink of dire water.
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Changing diapers. Dabbing bibs.
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Baby bottles on the counter
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rinsed with something more than tears.
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She was moths that die because
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they crave the touch of fertile light.
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Their presence patently ignored,
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the reason being irritating shame, of course,
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and hiccups from an empty crib.
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by Janet I. Buck
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Broken Crayons
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A junkyard heap of brittle bones.
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Petting pain like injured birds.
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Slivered glass in fingertips
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and dodging bullets in the dark.
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Pacing back and forth in dreams.
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I watch the nurses try to help.
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My flesh is red like candy canes.
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I hate the taste of peppermint.
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Muscles green like seaweed
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tied to ocean floors.
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Hand me stanzas. Health for once.
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I sit here like an angry cat
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who's tearing up upholstery.
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If only it were tied to will.
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I wish upon a moon, a star,
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and every single tree in sight.
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When frailty descends again,
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I crash the bike of living joy.
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Missing bones are broken crayons
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bleeding in the grimy night.
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by Janet I. Buck
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Church Pews
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You always said that benches
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in a summer park were better than a pew.
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That funerals were food for thoughts
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you'd rather not have served.
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That dentures were for rotting teeth
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and wits with little flavor left
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like bubble gum applied to shoes.
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Buy low. Sell high.
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But not your dreams.
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Those you never parted with.
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Dessert was first and
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garden gloves were made for
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prima donas minus hands
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that really touch the earth.
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You always said that humans
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shouldn't shoot a horse.
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Limping is a fact of life.
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And so is going lame.
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Harvard had impressive tiles,
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but never matched cathedral skies.
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College was a little glue,
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but knowledge came with strife.
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by Janet I. Buck
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***In Loving Memory of Florence***
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---------------------------------------------------------------------------
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uXu #454 Underground eXperts United 1998 uXu #454
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Call THE YOUNG GODS -> +351-1XX-XXXXX
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---------------------------------------------------------------------------
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