Taigé Lauren
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Caerostris Darwini

3/28/2019

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Yesterday and yesterday and yesterday 
I spun hard in the dark and feared
Raindrops like hammers
To my knots 
Disruption of sticking place.
Down pour a drum
A drum on the pavement below
Each blow a blow to sound
My own dying fall. 
I cast my last thread 
Silken yeses and muses nine -
A cry shall we meet?
Before falling into the slumber
Of death and death sweet.
Then awaken surprise!
A swallow's call
Deep and raising blues 
Of the morning rays. 
Blinking eight-eyed in the sun
Belly full of fire-
Breathing for the first time 
Not a wail this time -
This time, my opening and moan
This time, my blood and shed
Not my mother's 
And the prisms
On my web whisper the strands 
To shaking the remaking
Of my body
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3.12.19

3/12/2019

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It's as if the ocean, deep and wide, its unfathomable fathoms, swallowed me and I acclimated to the eels. I did not ask for it - their jolt like medicine, clearing the eyes. In the weightless interims, the shocking pauses, they decorate my fingers, my biceps, my thighs, their jaundiced bejeweled eyes. Then - electric ecstasy of light! - right now, now, just now, my insides are, there!, no, longer, blind. Trembling body, you are precious especially around the edges of pain. Send pulses out and out and I know I have now, now, touched them back, snakes of the dark, over their backs, my own, my, tremorous water, the container which makes us one, they and I, to who does what belong -
a finger, a bicep, a thigh
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It is icy.

2/7/2019

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Picture
It is icy. 

"You can let go if you need to."

I would not drop these bottles to save myself.

"But you can. Consider if you don't."

There would be repercussions. 

"What would they be?"

Blood and wine mixing, thawing the pavement -
the imagery is a little Christ heavy don't you think?

"Do you have a God complex."

Only so far as
my mistakes in this alley are for someone else
to clean up
to watch from a window
to feast on
we could go so far as to say I am a walking favor
even in death.

"Oh there is no good you know that."

Yes there only is
Him waiting at the iron gate
Hooded
Holding nothing 
But my hands - 
My hands - 
Hold on.

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The Saint

1/1/2019

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A dawn of a new year and the world resolves to begin again. For some of us, it is a day whose antics we reject and instead, simply carry on. But of course I refused to wash myself lest I lose any luck the transition brought me. Continue on unwashed I did. Wondering what of my spirit of disreview and unresolve? What of rejection of backwards or fore? I organized under cabinets and other small spaces, I played the guitar and ate rice, imagining myself devout and undistractedly devoted. That this was and is everyday. The peas and rice, the quiet, disciplined movement in a solitary reverence to the task. For moments, I was a saint. Beyond flesh, looking up and up. The rice only sustaining in the least fulfilling of ways. Up I was, unpenetrable and filled. Full with piety, I become easy tyrannical. I eat each pea with secret glea. My sunken flesh and hard jawline a trophy. Bearing my body as a burden but in my heart, deep in my heart, I am proud. On the cobbled walkways, the click of a simple but well-soled shoe. The earth holds the blood of believers before me. I say "I will join you." That too fills me up. Back in my room, out of my head and only surrounded by the glow of a table lamp, I think I miss believing. I wonder if it is easier. In this moment, glowing, I remember.
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Song for The Marchin' Man

3/25/2018

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Tens o’ thousand miles up off o’ the floor
Divine this place sift the life and its wars
Seldom come moment fight the time that is flown -
Just a man and his thoughts alone

Thank the ice on the window look the way that he feel
No engine drown the end-bearin’ bell toll and peal
Not the eyes make the view vague - ‘tis only the clouds!
Just a man’s what he’s been and he’s just a man now

Singin’ hey nonny hey nonny hey nonny ho
Shed not a tear for the things you don’t know
Hey nonny hey nonny hey nonny hi
Here’s a song for The Marchin’ Man who don’t cry

See the sea where his spirit has stayed on a ship
And the wind on which his mind ‘bout the pendant’s been whipped
Oh the marrow he’s made of’s thick mud o’ the moors
Just a man such a man’s got no home on these shores

Now nothin’ he taste for a tongue turned to sand
Somewhere’s a prayer this plane doesn’t land
Though it be not enough he’s done what he can
​Don’t know what it means but he’s still just a man

Singin’ hey nonny hey nonny hey nonny ho
Shed not a tear for the things you don’t know
Hey nonny hey nonny hey nonny hi
Here’s a song for The Marchin’ Man who don’t cry

With or without me world turnin’
Sounds loud my heart like a hound
Nay bird am I to belong to the sky
But neither do I on the ground

Tens o’ thousand miles up off o’ the floor
This the kind quiet he’s been lookin’ for
To the west reddenin’ sun to the past long-sealed doors
Spite o’ bein’ a man that houndin' heart roars

With a hey nonny hey nonny hey nonny ho
Some things are fickle the tears scald and flow 
Hey nonny hey nonny hey nonny hi
A good marchin' man only sing never cry 

Yes a hey nonny hey nonny hey nonny ho
Dug as deep as he could to find something to know
Hey nonny hey nonny hey nonny hi
Funny thing to learn it's nothin' when the sickle is nigh

Hey nonny hey nonny hey nonny hi
Watch how the marchin' man takes to the sky
Hey nonny hey nonny hey nonny ho
When the Styx gets a-flowin' better row boy oh row

Hey nonny hey nonny hey nonny hi
This a workin' song to be thrown to the sky
Funny thing that The Marchin' Man won't cry
Here's a song for the Man Who March when he fly
For the marchin' man who won't I've eyes that won't dry

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antiphoto France

7/26/2017

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A wise woman knows...

7/9/2017

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There are worse ways

To cope:

Crying, water

Some of us:

Sex

For example:

In a flea market, by the time you come out with less money and more rabbit-fur-covered things, you notice the sock bunched in your shoe necessitating surgery and a bar.

There are no solutions:

Heavy machinery and drink

Exist together

Who are you?

No accountant

No keeper of company but bone

A wise woman

Knows it's the devil's house

​We envy

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Snap

7/8/2017

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Fingers, peas, anger management 
​All have this
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The prisoners never made it home...

7/7/2017

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Picture
The prisoners never made it home
The children all are gone
Where rust and beetles settle
Grown
The corners keep nickels
Sunk to the bottom of the Meditterranean
Shower drains dust
Tractors dig their own graves
Just by sitting in place
Collective land disputes
We forget
And ask
Who's making breakfast
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Poemes en Français

3/16/2017

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Les Horloges
Les horloges 
Ne sont pas vraies

Quand j'ai appris le passé
Tout s'est ouvert

Mais c'est immuable 
Pas comme l'horloge

Ou comme l'horloge
Çela dépend des yeux

Les Briques

Je suis une fille fluide.
Je parle simplement. 
Je me trouve 
Entre autre choses
Étranges et solides
Spécifiquement:
Les briques.
Avec mon paume,
Je touche chaque.
Sur la craie,
Un chuchoter avant
Je les mets
​Dans le ciment. 

Le Spectacle

​Je ne m'efface pas
Plutôt un masque

Devient moi
Cela reconte l'état

Des choses dans
Mon regard:

Des plumes
Des spectacles limités

À travers des objectifs
Spectaculaires et mentant
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