Author: Richard J Tilley
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lighthouse stall-weights (unexpected mornings)
Mother trying to sabotage the peccadillo circumference Rules engage the lighthouse search parties Blue-collar stall-weights borrowing lines and forcing an early morning For goat milk and parochial community dances Dreams...
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Badger scion with coronal thorns
He would never abdicate his seat of power He has a courtyard pianist The pianist writes themes for his various ways and wants of walking to and fro, here and...
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Ginger Learning How to Ride Watching
Cross-seeded patina sensory echo ghosts nudge their way into the shoulder-lines too stilled to be vacant like the remorse of sister’s lost journals. Too weak for oil paints, love in...
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A divorce at the head of the journey to adulthood
Heads flown en masse on a train that neither steer nor abdicate solemn witnesses an ox of profundity dismasts as to pouchong rose petals scanting on the horizon of father’s...
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Lucrative Shadows in the Sutures of Pawns
cranial plates soap box rhythms placoid illusions to soft music soft bones, letting go of the evening triumph no longer a stalemate dancer, but another self-styled drone bee Souls meagre...
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Her Name is Hope; She Allows Us to Wait
raceme neutrality does not give gifts but the One, who is a wonder, does give vision to the desperate, floating hands on the back, a Voice for the falling and...
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She is Approaching, Tossing the Afternoon from its Wake
Jocund fences for embedding alacrity stole under counter-like belligerent dances bellicose mating calls and the rage of the human condition stalwart tidings in the dance of recall bound for the...
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The Seven Lost Journals of St. Markian Lewis
The Hesitation of St. Markian Lewis The shy embankment stations its pipes for gasoline and water in summer steps grounded to a conclusion that wheat is not like stalks of...
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Jolie Holland
In Memphis there are princes in the streets diving into the pavement like fish singing of romantic tomorrows lost to yesterday The Jolie Holland blues require a couple dollars in...
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This drowning evening
Fine books are burning burgonet horses shoveling snow like bikes in the village square on top stolen patronage, so odd to see you on this day, this drowning evening Lamented...