So, as some of the poets here may know, I often curse at a poem, the same way I do when I taste something from a chef that is good as fuck but I'm mad at it because it is good as fuck. It's a compliment. I must've cursed like six goddamn times reading this. Well done sir
I had to read this again (and again) because the funereal dirge quality wouldn’t leave me alone. It felt like where I live, in the depths of winter, surrounded by the remnants of Roman, medieval and Victorian lead and silver mines. I hear the footsteps, the threadbare, the hopeless. I feel them all in this poem.
Where have you come from, Pablo? You’re an old soul.
Genuine old-school capacity to fuse grief, threadbare poverty, rage, the fatedness of it, the waste. It's stunning. I'm still letting it do its work on me.
They get better and better, but each perfect in their distinct way. Definition of SKILLS TO PAY THE BILLS
I had fun with this one, bro!
Hungry…
This is so fucking cool.
So, as some of the poets here may know, I often curse at a poem, the same way I do when I taste something from a chef that is good as fuck but I'm mad at it because it is good as fuck. It's a compliment. I must've cursed like six goddamn times reading this. Well done sir
I'm soul-blown! Come to My Notes!
I had to read this again (and again) because the funereal dirge quality wouldn’t leave me alone. It felt like where I live, in the depths of winter, surrounded by the remnants of Roman, medieval and Victorian lead and silver mines. I hear the footsteps, the threadbare, the hopeless. I feel them all in this poem.
Where have you come from, Pablo? You’re an old soul.
Genuine old-school capacity to fuse grief, threadbare poverty, rage, the fatedness of it, the waste. It's stunning. I'm still letting it do its work on me.