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Was he the real angel of death-

our tongues touched. Recently

I haven't had much to eat-the

power of his forked tail was

such it split the moon apart

and I felt myself fragment into

bits-and I went with him to

tattoo the dead in the devil's

ink of red before he returned

me to my dusty bed and into

my arm I carved love love love.

My blood isn't the colour

promised-my tears are red

my blood is black-the sun is

black and the moon’s light I

dread for it illuminates the dead.

In her diary does my wife still

bother to use my name?

The internal echo is the same-

her name ricochets. Some days

eyes of a guard offer a reflection.

I prayed to God and received silence

so I recited the Lord's Prayer backwards,

asking him to reverse the seasons to

disturb my captors and capture the sly

eye of an indifferent planet.

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David W. Parsley

Well, you earned your name here, my friend. Ingenious progression of disturbing images and dreadful acts. Desperation's tour de force given language. I came away shaken. This may be the best work of yours, that I have read so far: same laser-like sustaining of keen emotion, but with richer context touching hope and the remnants of belief, a larger world to which the narrator may still return.

 

- Dave

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Was he the real angel of death-

our tongues touched. Recently

I haven't had much to eat-the

power of his forked tail was

such it split the moon apart

and I felt myself fragment into

bits-and I went with him to

tattoo the dead in the devil's

ink of red before he returned

me to my dusty bed and into

my arm I carved love love love.

My blood isn't the colour

promised-my tears are red

my blood is black-the sun is

black and the moon's light I

dread for it illuminates the dead.

In her diary does my wife still

bother to use my name?

The internal echo is the same-

her name ricochets. Some days

eyes of a guard offer a reflection.

I prayed to God and received silence

so I recited the Lord's Prayer backwards,

asking him to reverse the seasons to

disturb my captors and capture the sly

eye of an indifferent planet.

 

A mood piece, to me. Not in the usual way, but to allow the reader to feel th N's frustration, expecially with God and an indiffernt planet. Original but understandable. This line jumped at me: The internal echo is the same-her name ricochets. Thank you for letting us inside. Sorrowful, but with just a hint of absurdity.

fdh

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Stark imagery: exceeds much of that which I have read for some time in a first person narrative. “In her diary does my wife still bother to use my name?” are memorable words that for me, carry much weight within the context of your poem . Benjamin

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