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"Cafe Ötüken (it's too expensive to get drunk here) by M.A.A.
It had been half an hour, still burning the tongue a wrong move, and the stuff was streaming down hear them laugh, target the youngest of the pact I spit on the weakling, charges were mild so much distortion in this place and time that breaks a strong man to gag, to cry. For our plantations, above our discordant fields, they fly wings burning. We sit in peace and yearning, needing to praise pretty things. From a nearby table I heard the sabres clash what a bitch, imperative to admit, to sigh couldn't make much sense amidst the smash Belet-Seri, not to scorn the name but here it was probably the title and not one for the sane. The gentleman grabbed his mug, laughed a master-dunk through the glass rain of pieces, heartfelt shrapnel the only emotion that day that aroused the masses. For our plantations, above our discordant fields, they fly wings burning. We sit in peace and yearning, he threw a knife at their shields. The dame is alone now, torturing a tea bag blissfully ignorant of my table’s condition always grasping, snatching this soul back to a pivot left by the mind's dreamy position so I had built a black hole with mere words cosmogony praising some Babylonish lords image of such a flaw would scare any demon yet I threw the cup out of the broken window took the exit, took the coffee stained map petty glory, petty victory, the affairs I have they aren't with this herd, not for this land. For our plantations, above our discordant fields, they fly wings burning. We sat in peace and yearning the map fell and decomposed.
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"Insomnia" by C.G. Nelson
You lay in bed. You were there, Watching you clock creep Closer to morning. You reached out across The bed, hoping To grab onto something. She is gone, of course. She wasn’t there To begin with. It’s time to begin again. As you watch the Sun rise in your window, You rise also. And you are new again.
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"As Good a Place as Any" by Alberte P. Steengaard
Freshly baked bread and the smell of coffee Strangely familiar sounds of the city rushing past I’m thankful to the years I have spend here Grateful for the years I was away Inhaling new air New air, in the same place They have fresh bread and the coffee smell the same But the smell is different when I smell it elsewhere The city has changed so that everything can remain the same The people here are older My people, the people who shaped me Have now been shaped by new experiences In my absence We are closer now, yet our paths no longer run parallel to each other Now we must willingly cross paths again And where is my path, where will I go Now that I’ve come home My path has lead me far And further And now it has lead me home A home that I have not known as such For many years But if everything begins at home This could be a beginning A new familiar path In a changed place that has waited for me To come home I guess home is as good a place as any to begin again
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"Of Course: Begin Again" by S.J. Saighead
Spring is far too obvious, life too deep, and the phoenix is kitch. It's all too familiar. The same books, desk, laptop and nicotine dependency. (It's to get ahead) The is no end, just new beginnings at the foot of hills. Each morning rising, the same coffee and chair, the same view of rain. Sleep with strangers, in different beds, on exciting pillows. (It's good for the head) At the foot of hills just new beginnings there is no end; only begin again.
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Next exhibition theme: PANIC
Deadline: Midnight, August 29th
Submit at: firstname.lastname@example.org
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