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Convention
and people wake up one morning, and they want
to die cuz they've only ever done what they could,
and they only meant to do it for awhile, and they
never meant for it all to last this long, and they
never expected it; no, they never expected to wake
up one morning with their faces in ashtrays, with
their ovaries on ice, and their balls on the rocks,
and to suddenly understand
that the only task they've succeeded at--is mean-
ial; and the only time they lack--is all the time
that they want back.
Split'nto Two Pieces Undr Gas
Hs ntrprtation's imature, ys, bt
he has epimethealpsychosis, so
u know; bt the main issu's hs
notion: all blis's ephemeral...
(he won't gt far'n tht he cn't
pass th'notion tht man's always
been'n adolecent, n tht he's a
man) He won't gt far'n tht he
walks wth a limp, gimpd, n he
ws about t'comit--bt he didn't.
For Those Who Dance On
For those who know no more than to know less
and are no longer interested in being the same
all the time or sane all the time;
For those of us who speak in untold rhythms and jives
and abrasions, without the compulsive need to convulse
and interrupt ourselves;
For those birds without wings, ripping the wings off the things that fly
and duct-taping our soles to the gutter;
We dance on the hairs on the top of our heads, to the tune,
set in runes, settling for the major chords when the minors die,
ending finally with a sigh and wondering if we missed the last sign
for the turn-off that never arrives.
Robert Allan is an anomic poet who writes cuz he can't help it. Born
in Perth ON, he holds an HBA in English from the University of Toronto,
and he currently writes in Montreal QC. Rousingly, Ascent Aspirations
Magazine will be his first publishing credit.
Email: Robert Allan
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