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by Ben Freeland

 

Every time
I grow a third eye
it strays from my brow
wandering upwards to the top of the head
behind it
to the side above the ear
everywhere but frontwardly-focussed
and so I have to grow a fourth
a fifth a sixth a seventh and so on
until the head is all eye
eventually I’ll be able to see
panoramically

 


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this poem is gone
what’s left in its place
howling blood-red spatter-ment
arcing upon soulmelt pavement
where concrete warriors once padded
this scorched earth
now blackened like firespice

 

 

 


Artwork / Photo credit: Artist