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The City of Spare Parts (3) | by Miss Belua
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The City of Spare Parts (3)

This is the city where men are mended. I lie on a great anvil.

The flat blue sky-circle flew off like the hat of a doll

When I fell out of the light. I entered the stomach of indifference, the wordless cupboard.


The mother of pestles diminished me. I became a still pebble.

The stones of the belly were peaceable, the head-stone quiet, jostled by nothing. Only the mouth-hole piped out in a quarry of silences.


The people of the city heard it. They hunted the stones, taciturn and separate, the mouth-hole crying their locations. Drunk as a foetus I suck at the paps of darkness.


This is the after-hell: I see the light. A wind unstoppers the chamber of the ear, old worrier. Water mollifies the flint lip, and daylight lays its sameness on the wall.


A workman walks by carrying a pink torso. The storerooms are full of hearts. This is the city of spare parts.


Love is the bone and sinew of my curse. There is nothing to do.


Thank you to everyone who faved my art! :)


A link to my gallery; La Galleria de Luce


322 faves
Taken circa 2014