After We’re Done (poem)
The sky will be strangely blank / without cross-hatched contrails…
The sky will be strangely blank / without cross-hatched contrails…
Skin tossed onto the chair / spine tucked under the bed…
No grass will grow on my grave…
In this surrealist novel, full of images from alchemy and astrology and occult lore, two people try to find each other.
A partial biography of an ongoing life, following Blake’s continuing influence.
I haven’t been writing a lot of poetry lately, but last night I went to bed determined to write a poem before going to sleep.
KC PrideFest…
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NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 5: untitled by Carl Bettis