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Nate Thomas
Theater Reminds Me of Something Poe Said

We suck our cancer from the soul-staved spigot,
greedy, infantile, gluttons for the fat of


reed-thin and howling, throats split
to the mottled slag of


-faced and turned toward the wailing wall.

I will follow:
down the cemetery path,
down the rabbit hole,
down your rattled strand of mind.
Careless, naked before the coming storm
and the faceward rush of shoveled loam.

These are the times we live for,
Are they not?
And which times to we die for, but every time?
Every thundered tick of the mantle clock.
Every thin-blue pulse,


-bound, our souls expire.

Even our hair grows us to the grave.
Our nails grow to scratch the rock, screeching

Please don't leave me,
It's not over yet.

Knowing could we but howl down the Worm's open yawn
and sluice the unravelled gut of time,
What gods could we then make,
What universes we would wholly love.

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