From 08fd8e95dccb91d0495a50d1009f85cb80cfad65 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Case Duckworth Date: Tue, 14 Apr 2015 18:09:55 -0700 Subject: First compile in v1.0.0 --- swansong-alt.html | 54 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 1 file changed, 54 insertions(+) create mode 100644 swansong-alt.html (limited to 'swansong-alt.html') diff --git a/swansong-alt.html b/swansong-alt.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4d3e7b3 --- /dev/null +++ b/swansong-alt.html @@ -0,0 +1,54 @@ + + + + + + + + + + +Swansong | Autocento of the breakfast table + + + + + + + + + + +
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Swansong

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alternate version

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This poem is dry like chapped lips.It is hard as teeth—hear the tapping?It is the swan song of beauty, as allswan songs are. Reading it, you arepuzzled, perhaps a little repulsed.Swans do not have teeth, nor do they sing.A honking over the cliff is allthey can do, and that they dobadly. You don’t know where I’m going.You want to tell me, You are not you.You are the air the swan walks on.You are the fringe of the curtainthat separates me from you. I saythat you are no longer the temple,that you have been through fireand are now less than ash. You arethe subtraction of yourself fromthe world, the air without a swan.Together, we are each other. Youand I have both nothing and everythingat once, we own the world and nothing in it.

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