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thought & memory (Free verse) by Bill Z Bub
In thought, eyelids shut, I can see static like a secret satellite signal beam to my bleary brain or a prototype video game, my virtual life. And memory a laconic raven perched amid allfather's wayworn strands; hard, leeched, with dusted pinion, expiry passed, less cogent or material but in lurking quietude over endless blank lines, the peregrine pen invokes the infinitesimal and for one effulgent second these holed and drafty walls drop away.

Down the ladder: ?

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Arithmetic Mean: 6.0666666
Weighted score: 5.939517
Overall Rank: 1394
Posted: July 14, 2003 1:37 PM PDT; Last modified: July 14, 2003 1:37 PM PDT
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[7] Rodavlas @ | 14-Jul-03/2:38 PM | Reply
abyss-like. (deep)
[10] thepinkbunnyofdoom @ | 14-Jul-03/4:24 PM | Reply
This tickles the little hampster running on a wheel in my brain's nut sack. -10-
[n/a] <~> @ > thepinkbunnyofdoom | 14-Jul-03/9:41 PM | Reply
nut sack, hind foot--it's all pink and fated, to me.
[9] Tahlia @ | 14-Jul-03/5:54 PM | Reply
Well written piece, great talent.
[n/a] <~> @ | 14-Jul-03/9:40 PM | Reply
BILL!! do not tickle these deities!! the are violent, and virulent.

drop the great; embrace the mundane. you will love me for it.

x, z
[8] richa @ | 15-Jul-03/3:42 AM | Reply
nice fast flow and good word selection. I prefer verses 2 and three, the first uses surfaces that appear quite decadent
[8] god'swife @ | 15-Jul-03/10:15 AM | Reply
I have a problem with 'infinitesimal'. Otherwise perfect, especially the last stanza.
[n/a] Bill Z Bub @ > god'swife | 15-Jul-03/5:40 PM | Reply
Thank you. How about "unseen"?
[10] deleted user @ | 1-Oct-03/8:10 PM | Reply
the infinitesimal
and for one effulgent second
these holed
and drafty walls
drop away."
I like a read with interesting wording. This was quite a poem. You remind me of some one close to me...I'll show you a sample of his work..

The July night spit and cracked in its black eye,
its black iron pot; black boots rout sand
on a beach whose shadows revolve, roll about
like fat citrus at dawn’s red skin. Fork-split;
my father died this night.
In a Texas tumbleweed—tumble,
was the cement, the man, the moon.

I do not tote his flag, carry visions across
the years as tinder
into flames.
Hell is too abundant. It pumps through tubes
and cavities in snow-banked gullies,
sweet waters of Hungarian streams.
I have taken it up. I am all mouth—

he taught me this with bony spindles, contours.
Off a mountainside, I recall. Forget, forget;
suicides, contusions, edges—
forget since you can not.
Black boots stretch and moan on the concrete,

in the black eye; I fit them tight
as a casket, right as a dead man’s

We were both published in the same zine. I admire his work as I do yours. I'm sure I messed up his structure though. ;)
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