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Gregory Lawless

Knives and Steam



I’m worried about my anima.


She spends all her time in her room, cooking things with knives and steam.


One night I go up there and she’s made snow kittens, breakfast, and a feeling-machine with tears pouring down its wheels.


The next day the sun’s like hot porridge in our laps.


She tells me all about her dreams, but just to bore me.



All Art Is Private



Apples fall into the river and for once I am there to see it.


That plash, the size of a cowbird.


If you could be either rich or beautiful, you would pick rich in this place since the rich get to think about apples all day long if they wish.


I’m sorry. I know what you’re going to say.


It’s rude to talk about beauty.


There are many who can’t afford it and never will.


I came here by mistake, and I’ll leave the same way.




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