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Prisoner of wordsBy Phillipe Vicente QuailBellMagazine.com Intrepid slime of scars, escargot and maggots paving the grains and thrills beneath the constipation of tougher times. A few captured from rain and smoke,
dates that steel into beams, the gates of the community into which I’ve been given the job of being the lights when off. Guarded them from my presence by only stepping outside a half hour before and after their done sunning. Staring at myself seems to ease the wounds breathing, reduces the anger’s sweating down to a puddle they can easily step over. Occasionally I hear them gather to talk about what it would take to get me to blow my brains out. Get their kids to parade across my front lawn with toy guns with hope I’ll get inspired by their playful butchery. Today I think I’m going to ruin their cars, absent skin scratching against their polished shadows. Sure it could be said that I’m no longer a man but merely its antihero, a bad habit no longer former but abscessing, but I gave up my country for this pension, the only way any of those feet first backyard divers are going to rid me of it, is by wrestling me with more than their porch lights. CommentsComments are closed.
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