Poem by Aaron Lantz

Painting by Carl Bowlby

Where the streets

Of Paradise

Intersected with the life unlived.

Where the tragic scope

Of weathered waves

Brought ruin to the organisms

Tossed about

In the current of ripened veins.

The thirsty, cursing, fleshly cords

Of thunder over the closing gate,

Thunder over the closing gate.

Up to that moment

The tension was bearable,

But the thunderclap of lost insanity

Fractured the only vice

Left intact in the shaking


Look then,

Through the gauze

That covers the punctured eyes

Of winter window gazing.

The straight-spined unlaced sliver

Of repopulated animosity.

The spring that launches a thousand

Litres of blood into the brains

Of those who pray further than they

Can Hope.

Abandon the ships

Of anxiety.

Survive the day behind closed doors,

Porcelain cages.

Cast your blemished cards to the

Keepers of chance.

Yes, cast your cards

To the rushing winds.

Blame not the blood that keeps

Your quaking shell alive,

The storm that carries all your dreams.

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