
tick tock
with cogs and clock
with arms a'
spinning and whirling
don't lose your head
or you'll wind up dead
with fingers gone
stiff and curling

tick tock
with cogs and clock
with arms a'
spinning and whirling
don't lose your head
or you'll wind up dead
with fingers gone
stiff and curling
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asking the wrong questions
if only we could
take them back
and ask the answers
instead
blind to deaf
my mute mouth moves
in time to raindrops
on summer's hot
metal roof
waiting to forget
all that i sought
to know
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I seem to have puppets on the brain these past few days. In part, it has something (in part) to do with purchasing and playing a game that I wasn’t sure I would like. But that’s not the only thing prompting the ponders on puppets.
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gather bones
gather leaves
gather poppets
gather strings
pop cracks stone
dancing fire
dancing sparks
dancing poppets
dancing leaves
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puppets all, we dance to
another jag-time waltz
thinking we set the rhythm
by the fumble of feet
we ain’t no hep cats
jazzing our bluejeans
the strings tangle to bind
as we stumble that last
drunken mile home
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everything too suchness
fan rattle to flame seething
and shudder limbs shake
ragged wrap in arms
of rags and wraith
chasing all elder ways
knock the stone fell
rattle the bones
shake in clenched silence
rattle all those bones
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The James Cameron produced television scifi/drama that aired for two seasons between 2000-2002 was one of those shows that missed when it was “a thing”. I was still fully into my turn-the-television-around-to-face-the-wall-except-when-I-really-wanted-to-watch-television phase. By the time I finally got in the mood to watch it, there was almost no way to do so easily (YouTube bootlegs were so awful that I didn’t make it fifteen minutes).
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with a head full of thistle &
hands stained of woad
skating away over water to
while away a spell
with the acorn man
you probably
would not understand
that has become a given
over these near
twin scored years
and so it comes to
wander this wodewood alone
chatting with oaks
in the blackthorn
with a head full of thistle &
hands stained of woad
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gone to wode
in the weald
gone to fever
in the head
would he to wild
oh darkling, at
spanning rivers
in his bed
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