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postlude :: adrian matejka

by on March 3, 2015

Music, all its squawks
& squeaks. Heart-beat
music, misery music:
I once believed nothing
was more singular
for a human than to turn
twists of the belly
into song. I have to make
an adjustment. I have
to revise: man’s invention
is romance & without that,
he has jack. I apologize
for the oversight, but
as I sit, cave of flesh
where I once had a heart,
sounds seem less important.
Only half as harmonious
as before, sounds lapsed
in the vocal fold. But I can
still see shapes. More often
than not, I remember
the names of things.

From → poems

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