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Three poems by Kyle Allan

There is a time.

There is a time blatant
like the rivers passing
to the sea and amiable
like the mercy of all cool water.

There is a time brutal
like mirrors and sharp
like human bones and words
rising like anger
from the grave.

There is a time like
dying houses and all things
passing,a sky stabbing
the innards and a land
not yet spoken and
roads made of human
salt that rise from
the eye.

There is a time,dying,
a cancer within us,
a mountain imposed
on my souls hands
like living nails,
a darkness breathing
in and out the mouth
like a venomous spider
into the street,
without fear or passion,
a time of love and poison,
of words and anger
throwing crowds walking
forward into history
and dying to existence.


Which census will count
my hands desire? Which
government official the
parabellum of your body,
smooth and brown and wet in
air,within air,moving
into fading sunlight?

The lucid intervals of speech
that quiver in the air. The small
touch of your fingers, invisible
to the punctured beliefs. A
mountain fell on the musk,
pain blinked in veins, roots stirred in political hunger.
Why such vulnerablilty,
leaning against a wall,
words lost in

There was silence between the windows.
I comb the blind flesh nervously,
counting renegade dreams.
The real evil is perfection.
The hungry plague climbs the
spines stair,in air,within air.


To the poverty that is in the bread I eat.
To the crime that is an extension of fear,
and the violence of owning things,and not
being free.

To the township where I live,shaping me
as a child. To the silences I have never
possessed,that possess me. To the
pains of hunger,unstoppable. To
the land that possesses me,I do
not possess.

To the silence I said the truth is a bad taste,
but you odour it every moment.

To the silence I taste in the walls
of my room,sexless the voyage to death,
the old mans tongue stilled like meaning,
the cruelty of bones mouthing my reality.

To the self I said you are already dead,
but too many words are unstoppable now.