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Beached
At the watermark
the line is drawn,
there, the sharp cool clearness
of a torquoise mirror marines me,
while I bend to pick up
Chinamen's fingernails
with the blinding Sun on my back,
I consider my life,
it has gone up in flames
licking my capricious mind
with contemptuous poetry, and
now this is what I live and breathe,
it has come to this,
oh what a catastrophe, a writer
on a beach,
beached,
subtidally half-buried
sheltered in sand,
what creature lived inside
that solen vaginoid exterior
now cast off
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Copyright ©
Candide Diderot
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