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Norwegian
Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
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a love lamp
i drilled out
foir my sweetie
the night before
velantines day, 1983
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Norwegian
Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
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love is elastic,
morphine to accommodate
her spectator's
interpretation.
love is at war.
with everything.
an arrogant emotion,
she seeks to
govern all understanding,
and ask of us taxes
such as maturity
and poise and
unflinching compromise.
love is fluid.
like the wind.
universal in it's
solvency.
no man is safe.
nor any woman.
we are all destined
to weep.
love is strategic.
opportunistically venerable,
though ultimately steadfast and durable.
i'm inside of it.
i don't know how i arrived here.
i met it's challenge
and we engaged in a battle.
though i've brawn and stubborn will,
she thoroughly out-maneuvered me
and shot me up like heroin,
and now i'm in her blood,
carrying zest to her extreme bounds.
i prolly just pricked your girlfriend.
enslaved, i felt defeated.
then my nordic fortitude aroused,
and i know, now,
that i win.
for though she caged me within her,
i find parody in my position.
for i embody hate,
and thus my hate scribes
Love's masterful strokes.
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SC seagoat
Trad climber
Santa Cruz, Moab or In What Time Zone Am I?
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Susan
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