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SPASM
poem by Janet Kenny
art by Julio Mateo
I never thought about men
who live alone. Never.
I have lived with a man
most of my life
yet never imagined a man alone,
unused to a passing caress,
exchanged glances,
a knowing laugh of recollection.
How sad. How sad.
Women fear something called
dirty old man,
and shriek triumphant
if touched in a train.
Let me explain –
he was not touched for years
except by his dentist, until the unbearable
isolation engulfed,
and that touch was a spasm
before his heart died.
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original music by Mike Rushford | sides of me [ ISDN ] [ 28.8 ]
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Splatter
poem by Ani Gjika
art by Fran Barrault
When you sit
over my legs
tickling my belly,
you're a crazy old man
worshiping my Chi
with hands, eyes
and chants in a language
I've never heard
but understand.
Then, when you lock
your hands with mine
coming down
to seize my lips,
you're the cataract of vim;
your lips splash
on my peripherals
overtake all my portals
no longer traveling
the outskirts,
you're in.
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