The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Magic Spell
By Claire LeDoyen
A haircut between friends.
Enter trust agreement. Here. You are here
We are Singing
songs about living in our own filth
losing parts of the sewing machine
in piles of dirty laundry.
Turn your lights off
to see shadows from the moon. The morning-dove will sing as you write by the glow.
Will your fire.
Devil in reflections;
With the man you wouldn’t look at all night
Extinguish dying fires through dance.
Where are you going?
Don’t get too close to the edge.
Scream, “it all feels like home.”
The clouds will slow down soon.
No camera could capture any filled night
With the clouds’ constant movement and the exposure you’d have to use it would blur.
Like being born.
Look at that vortex.
Distressing pyromancy (?)
Will Better Perception.
THE MOON IS BACK.
for a limited time
It is about one minute past midnight.
The only clear spot in the universe above us
dance the hell out of
these hardwood floors before
you get any furniture
On the eve of St. John
Smelling stalks of henbane in the skin of a young hare, buried at a crossroads;
With bat’s blood
sator arepo tenet opera rotas virgin
under the threshold of this house
The Clash On Vinyl.
Lo ma na pa quoa ra sata na.
Lay down beside your shoes.
The electric plasma writing code in my body is old lace draped on a coat rack
in the dark.
This is for your anthill projects:
What you call injustice is innate.
Where is the
magic magic magic magic magic
To bless the floors, lie
on the ground feeling the support of the wood
I can collapse over and over again without bruising.
The best way to bless them is dancing, bandit, so start to step.