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poetry/c/choco.txt
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poetry/c/choco.txt
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That Ain't Chocolate, Son
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2020-11-15
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***
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There are nine hedgehogs
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in my house. I have nothing
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to do with them because, every time
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my mother or my brothers
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hold one in their hands,
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the tiny creature immediately
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sets to work
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shitting out a log.
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I may be evil
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and belonging to foreign lands,
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but I abhor having
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such filth
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on my hands.
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So tell me, mother,
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why do you hate that I
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always close my door
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when you act as if
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everything of mine
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is actually yours?
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My pad of art paper,
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saved for stormy weather,
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gone one day
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into the paper shredder
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to serve as bedding
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for ungrateful creatures
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who couldn't tell the difference
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between a slaughter
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and a wedding.
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"I don't care
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that you're busy having fun
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with your brother you usually torment.
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That's not the purpose
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for which you are meant.
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Be a good girl and help him take
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the hedgehog wheels upstairs."
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How delicious it is to say
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that actually I don't have to spend any pains
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on those who rob me of the sun:
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"Not my pet, not my problem."
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Because of them, I have to
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live in a house full of
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poop and paper shreds and
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shit-covered wheels that squeal
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at all hours of the night.
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Somehow, I don't believe
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you're half as "low-income"
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as you claim to be.
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***
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CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (c) Vane Vander
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poetry/c/comer-beber.txt
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poetry/c/comer-beber.txt
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comer / beber
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2020-02-11
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***
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eat up, drink up, my children
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are starving for sustenance
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eyes rolling like a madman
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trapped in endless raving trance
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don't let it all consume you
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like your ancestors have before
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you despise walking on other's footsteps
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stopping short of the golden door
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save some for the little kids crawling in the back
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they've been waiting for eternity
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and will have to wait millennia more
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for their turn to hear and see
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call me when the roast is done
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and I'll bring a hose with me
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your flowers are at the verge of wilting
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***
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CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (c) Vane Vander
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poetry/c/confectionery-contempt.txt
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poetry/c/confectionery-contempt.txt
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confectionery contempt
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2016-04-28
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***
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one of these days in the summer heat
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your sweet sugar will rot my teeth
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planting a seed inside my chest
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and growing a candy cane forest
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the last I remember of you
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your skin felt like peppermint stew
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with a dash of cotton candy here and there
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leaving finely spun strands everywhere
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every night for my dessert
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you’d melt into me along with the hurt
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like you dumped sour worms into my wounds
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the chocolate bubbling on the stove will be ready soon
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your presence won’t disappear from this house
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like the licorice stolen by that one mouse
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sticky blue handprints left on the walls
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elongating as my “lollipop” falls
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***
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CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (c) Vane Vander
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poetry/c/corner-witch-2.txt
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poetry/c/corner-witch-2.txt
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CORNER WITCH II
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2020-12-07
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***
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what would you lack
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had you a magic cloak
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that, come three twirls,
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would turn you into a bird black?
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the whole world would become my nest,
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and I would roam the world,
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never returning home,
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not even at parents' behest
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I wish that I could say
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that that would be the end of my problems,
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gaining mobility,
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that everything would then turn out okay:
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but I have not yet come to terms
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with the fact I have too much baggage,
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too many trinkets I would need to bring along,
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unless I wanted to shrink my whole world down to a single worm
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and while inside I may be an animal,
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divine creature begging to break through my skin,
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I must treat this body as human,
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lest I break down and become unwell
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***
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CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (c) Vane Vander
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poetry/c/corner-witch.txt
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poetry/c/corner-witch.txt
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CORNER WITCH
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2020-04-06
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***
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what would you do
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with a magic cloak
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that come three twirls
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would turn you into a bird blue?
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I'd escape out my bedroom window
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and let the wind take me where it will
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whether past the horizon or back to my windowsill
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to watch the sky's fiery chariot plunge down low
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but there's nowhere far I could go
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no hope of bringing along my things
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with legs like easily-snapped twigs
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that bleed lost promises into the snow
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and Pernicious does not as much sway
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as the wind tousling the trees' hair
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to convince me to abandon everything
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and seek her bosom in hopes all will turn out okay
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and what would Eternal Mother say when
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I turn up at her door not to sing of her animals,
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but to come one forevermore?
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to abandon my voice, a sin
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***
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CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (c) Vane Vander
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poetry/c/crescendo.txt
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poetry/c/crescendo.txt
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crescendo
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2016-03-12
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***
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sweetness never stays.
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no horizon is worth chasing relentlessly
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ambition fades into obsession
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and crescendos in devastation
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a delicate ball of pure glass
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wound out of the finest sands
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twice shattered and once glued
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can never be truly put back together
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sticks and stones
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may break people’s bones
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but scars dug deep enough
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never truly heal
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where is the peace I paid for?
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surely my childhood doesn't hold a monopoly
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although countless summer afternoons spent poring over
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paper money counts in some convoluted way
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***
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CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (c) Vane Vander
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