Thursday, October 27, 2005

The free man thinks of nothing less than of death, and his wisdom is a meditation on life, not on death. -Spinoza


A running start
beneath the faucet,
Monty's hall is right.
The left remains,
Living shoots
that kill the wary.

Fuck the moon
and all that follows.
bloody hands
bearded eyes
the river is fallow

1 Comments:

Blogger casual ninja said...

this is a very romantic poem.

6:36 PM  

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