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this is a lile gheo magazineproduced by Henry Chalise
for your utmost consumptionand printed by dispress
to support the fucking cause
ISSUE TWO
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lile white poetry journal
DP0600P4B
issue number two
henry chalisepress.litdispatch.net/hc
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1st Work Backby M. Frias-May
Jesus never gave a straight answer but
There are plenty now so it is true
Readers are evaporating
Logos multiplying
Faith, hope, charity
Lap dancers with runny nosesMy neighbor says the world is
Going to do what the world is
Going to do: meaning I should
Start drinking again and I have
And this is my first work drunk
In two years and my pants are
Around my ankles and the catWants out and my wife said she
Loved me yesterday and today
She wants a divorce because I
Refuse to get a second job. The
First had everything to do with
This: the second: well see
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The Edge of the Worldby Leigh Hughes
Sally sits at the edge of the world. The edge of the world. Catchingfireflies and singing songs at the edge of the world. Talking to herdad who died five years before, at the edge of the world. Pickingscabs, catching fireflies and singing songs at the edge of the world.Talking to dad, whos dead, dead. Flicking boogers, swinging on
branches, picking scabs. Talking to dad. Looking for fireflies,catching fireflies, letting them go. At the edge of the world. Find-ing ladybugs, smashing ladybugs, looking for fireflies, catchingfireflies, flicking boogers and swinging on branches. The branch-es of oaks, and elms, and spindly fig trees, at the edge of theworld. Picking scabs and flicking boogers, digging under dampbrown leaves for slugs and grubs and snails. Picking scabs, eat-
ing boogers, and eating slugs and grubs and snails, and dampbrown leaves. Flicking slugs and grubs and snails and swingingon branches. Singing songs, looking for fireflies, and catchingfireflies, and letting them go. Digging under damp brown leaves,looking for dad who died five years before and talking to firefliesat the edge of the world. Scooping dirt and twirling worms andeating damp brown leaves. And eating damp brown leaves. Mov-
ing earth, and scooping dirt, and digging, digging, at the edge ofthe world. Singing songs and looking for fireflies, and movingearth. Moving earth from the edge of the world. Picking scabs andeating slugs and grubs and snails, talking to dad. Catching
fireflies, moving earth and digging for dad at the edge of the
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world. Twirling worms and sweeping dirt from the wood under-neath the edge of the world. Curling on dad who died five yearsbefore and sleeping with fireflies at the edge of the world.
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black medicineby John Sweet
one flower for every day
weve never met,
one bleeding orphan,
one story with no ending
listen
i get tired of these poems
with no real meaning
is it enough to tell you
i love you?
is it too much?
fuck it
lets meet halfway in some
sad little motel in some
sad little state no one really
wants to live in
lets get naked and lick
each others wounds until
our tongues are dry and
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swollen
forget our childrens names,
leave our cell phonesturned off,
and lets call it desire
lets call it hunger
quickly
before the next war begins
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the angels, dreamingby John Sweet
this fear of language
of being understood
these words shaped into images of
hatred and violence
because the pain we cause each othershould never be forgotten
the president should be held accountable
for every dead soldier
for every raped orphan
and the song will be loud and
without end and
the poets will all be ignored
we have moved past the age of christ
and into darker times
we have been taught blind worship
have been lectured on compassion by
any number of pedophile priests and
what they want isnt to save
your soul but to devour your children
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the heart is exposed, the prayer
revealed to be a cancerby John Sweetno coffins, no sunday dinners,
no words beyond asshole
and fuck off
bring your camera
take notes
how far down can a hole be
dug in this sandy soil before the
walls begin to cave in?
how many of the dead are
never found?
and this is a trick question,
of course,
like asking how youll give a woman
a name when her hands and feethave been cut off, her teeth punched out, her
face stripped of features by hungry
scavengers
and this is lunchtime on a
saturday afternoon,
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the river grey, the streets silent
this is the american century
this is entropy
there is always a limit to
how long any of us really cares
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in angerby John Sweet
Its just a needle, just the
tip of a tongue, just the sky
burned silver. A poet dead
by his own hand. The joke
of it. The absolute fucking
hilarity.
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easterby John Sweet
says politics is a fist
then shows you how to bleed
walks from room to room
from house to house in
the pouring rainbut no one is home
no one is the person i
wanted you to be
and wasnt this what your
father said?
werent those his hands
slowly down the length of your body
while you pretended to sleep?
i am tired of thinking about
all of the ways ive
failed you
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