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Interred Lisa Hannah |
20 milligrams lock it down - the physical body. So the brain’s interred for safety, and all seems frivolous. The pen, purple and loud. The circular saw of its descent wheels in, and leaves a desk fan, poised in one direction. Thoughts smell of scorched hair as the brain tunes out, singed by the circuit break. Sliding down between seats, out of the physical landscape, unseen by the spectator whose hair is too rough, too knotty. The bright mid-day window. Tulips reach out to bite, and cabbages wave like taffeta. Lisa Hannah [Return to Psychopoetica home page] ©The contents of this page are copyright protected.
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