TELLER OF OLD THINGS (poem)

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Memories recall fleshy
times of hot red oil
warm breath and touch
fingers pointed skinless
sharp like quills plucked
from dead angels' wings

Marimba chimes spatter
pretentious dreaming
clawing vein-hunger upon
prison walls cursed hard
with rusty earthlings
who sound of nothing now

Hopes pissed in stardust
winters old tinder dry
mocking most the forgetful
as always the deep fear
turns myth-tale over epochs
his laugh last and longest

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