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The moon bulges with meticulous sick amber fire while first night’s chest heaves and sputters free infantine monstrosity from plague-wormed hovels, din mold choked grottos, and stale metal-cast labyrinth catacombs.
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Did I refer to Mark Twain’s typewriter as an animal? Did I call it a hyena? I would not say that about Mark Twain’s typewriter.
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had I gotten home without knowing it? well . . .
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There's a witch in Laurel Canyon.She made Wes a promise.Her bungalow smelled like Parliaments. Parliaments, garlic frying in olive oil. Parliaments, garlic frying in olive, and a freshly opened pack of Red Vines. Wes could have curled up into a ball and fallen asleep on her…
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He began to chop the powdery substance and separate it into segments.
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There are many ways to cope effectively with your life after a Les Miserables run, and everyone is different, but here are some things that have helped others work through the process.
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the injured color wheel of the world
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I may have gone
A little soft in the brain
But I swear I still see it
The angel closes the rain
Even God has to refrain
From causing us pain
When the angel closes the rain
So the angel closes the rain
At the end of time
The angel mus
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Most women simply don’t want damaged goods. That’s a fact I’ve been brought face to face with throughout my life. It's something you can continue crushing your brains against, like an impossibly high hurdle. At first you take the damage without unde
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Friday afternoon. Angelique Brody knocked Francesco’s studio door.
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She was sitting in her swivel chair talking to a girl who was her younger image, ...
“Well, there you go, I’m a fire sign and you’re an earth. That’s just the way it is.”
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Your tunamelt cadence / Sank me to ocean floors
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I imagined cool, wet clay oozing between my fingers when I'd squeeze a tight fistful.
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She's not a poet, but does she have to be? She comes to the reading to read the poems of her recently dead husband, for she made a vow: that she would read his work at an open mic. Now she is keeping her word. It's her way of keeping him alive or maybe it's his way of…
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Bardan O'Connor stared at himself in the mirror but didn't recognize the image before him. He was pale and looked like death. He tried to psyche himself up for the latest show with a shot of Irish whiskey. He slapped himself hard in the face. "Get it together man." The…
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—Can you handle a threesome? said Isabella.
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Hank: Yeah, the way her head was bashed in, it looks like someone really had it in for her. Did you call the coroner?
Bill: Yeah. Boy, you couldn’t pay me enough to do the stuff those coroner and medical examiner guys do. It seems like
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"Which way ought we to go from here," he asked.
She smiled again, "that all depends on where we want to get to." He nodded but didn't laugh so she sighed and strolled around the room, tuning and looking and considering her options.
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Poems reflect their poets. /
Mine: ugly but loved. /
It is just as well.
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#ShortStory #writers
are failed #poets...
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When she would leave my pillows still smelled like her. I would just inhale her for hours afterwards, sex and honeysuckles.
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The first time that
Beethoven’s Fifth was played,
people ran into the streets.
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Your son is six feet tall in the sixth grade. By his sophomore year of high school, he outweighs you by a hundred pounds. He's been offered four football scholarships and one for a sport he's never played. Every morning his mother, your ex ex-wife, makes his breakfast of a…
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this is your hair, this is your stare, this is your voice
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Our ragged wits, ragged minds, after acting out all, imitating all honey-like tunes, air song, excellence of song, true flower of the world. So the sun has some of its honey wintered away, to bring it into contact with such a human voice as yours.
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Eat the Body/
Drink the Blood/
Perfect the sacrifice,
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By dawn, she is ready to hunt.
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It's not a funeral. Nobody to mourn over.
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In the end, he knew he wasn’t going home.
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