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The Impossible Machine
What do we speak for those poets
reclining on luxurious shadows
clutching at the body of Venus
as though she begun every book?

Their lips pull at the glass
filled to the brim,
and fountaining with nectar.

Their brain pans are flowing with ink,
which dribbles from their eyes
and onto the pages

of those
who are thirsty.

What do we speak of those lovers of
their tongues warm with walking words
their eyes mazy with the labyrinth
of the poetic spell?

What do we speak for the words
their inky paws and tails
making every cat look black?
by Eucaleh Terrapin