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"Goetic! And the Words Are Lost Once More..." by M.A.A.
A sceptre falls down from the shelf its lord throws himself down the ages a voice called, with delicate vocals where have you been? hiding amidst marble pillars wielding your rusty swords caged by your castle walls in some goetic scheme of gods the boy was to drown in greatness and love for a short while for a second, for another time but the voice cracks disappears just like that walls closing in fast end your damn pride at last the sceptre lost its glamour now but a worn-out shovel to bury the hopes with ghosts of time the shelves emptied of poems and wine left a few words in the air to greet oh, where have you been?
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"Postal" by Mark J. Mitchell
Just west of forty, waving at the world, a tourist, passing through. I mail postcards with terse notes, coded, crude handwriting hard to read at best. Pictures of cars or girls or diners dress the fronts. I look for old icons, nothing too shiny or modern. I don't honor shopworn gods, downtrodden myths. No, I just like places the past's sold. Besides, they weigh more lightly on me and there's space, between lines of fading blue ink. for word games I disguise with meter, rhyme and pass as wisdom, insight. I can't stand myself or my cheap tricks. I can't out think soul. So I play at being lost in time.
“Invisible” by Alberte P. Steengaard
Being invisible really only leaves you with two options – you can either walk around dressed, having everybody convinced they are seeing things, or you can walk around naked. And I mean completely naked. Trust me when I say it is as uncomfortable as you may imagine, because even though you are technically invisible, you still feel VERY exposed. I don’t know how I became invisible, or why for that matter. I guess I’ve always been easy to overlook, the kinds person that fades in with the wallpaper, you know? I didn’t even know it had happened at first. I went to work, did my job, just like any other day, even went to the park to read as I often did in my lunch break. As I sat there on the bench reading Kafka’s Metamorphoses a little girl asked her mom in a high pitched voice why someone had left their clothes on the bench and pointed directly at me. “Don’t be silly, dear. It is an art installation” the mom said without so much as a glance in my direction. She was busy looking at her phone. Of course it freaked my out at first, but I guess you can get used to even the craziest things. This certainly qualifies as crazy. But there are upsides too – I can’t remember the last time I paid to get in anywhere. I went to the fun fair for free the other day, even dared take an ice cream out of the man’s truck. As I left the truck a little boy stared at me with wide eyes, and he tried to tell his mom that the ghost had stolen an ice cream. She didn’t believe him, of course. Sometimes I think children can see me – or maybe more sense my presence. I guess children still see everything around them, unlike adults who have learned to filter out the unimportant details of their surroundings. Which brings us back to the whole clothes vs. nudity thing. I don’t like the idea of traumatising small children by walking around naked, not being sure whether they can see me or not. So most days I don’t leave my apartment at all. Maybe I should take more advantage of my situation and sneak into to more exciting places than fun fairs and libraries, but I am not that brave. I stick to my daily debate, which is clothes or nudity? Being invisible comes with its own set of troubles, who could have known. But I guess that comes with being lost to the world.
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“Losing Moonlight” by S.J. Saighead
The hands are spinning like joyful tops, When not watched with patient eyes. The sun has gone but not its light Now soon to make a reprise. He works forlorn, our hero quiet; His lover away, asleep. Night must pull down tired eyes, Despite not sowing, he must reap. His head is a cloud, his feet hills, His skin the colour of death. But he must go on, fallen knight, He now has no reason to fret. Not fault but his own He'll reap what is sown. At night, all alone, With nothing done. The hour is so quiet, Wasted on unrestful souls: Who have no time to admire, Who have no time at all. He gives in at last To restless sleep, With nothing to show, all of which he can keep.
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Next week’s theme: LAND
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