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by Alex Bell

I am violent starving eyes,

my mind, carved out like a hollow carcass, 


its ribs bowed with the ghost of flesh 

hangs like a shredded flag. Eye struck 


by the witch’s sabbath

dancing by the cackle of a flame. 


Within these wild wooden irises, 

I hear a rustle in a nightmare


a silent monster purged of scorn. 

Where has my anger gone? 


Where are my bangle teeth?

How do you know who you are? 


Do I wait for someone to tell me,

or do I write myself like a god? 


If I stay here in this room, at this desk 

I can play out my passive fantasies, but 


out there I’m as hungry as a beast, 

like the ones they throw in cages. 


Who am I to live? Who am I to die? 

Is any decision whole so long as it’s made, 


or am I shipwrecked in waves of wonder? 

They say it’s like an impulse, a state of being, 


like knowing how to breathe or when to cry.

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