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A Passage on the Consumption of Poetry:

I would like to take a second of your time to delve into the absorption of poetic writing.

It is a disconnected -

- bucket -

- of words.

It is abstract language to be refilled by perspective.

It is only if the one who created says it is.

There is,

no rule.

To the naked eye, these words mean their definition.

Some words mean nothing.

Those which are invented by the prospector.

Words that seem to exist in ego.

The truth…

The truth which is only known by those that know the truth, and to know the truth is a rarity, for you know if you know the truth, but the truth cannot be learned as it is the truth, you are not born with the truth, you simply find it.


Some of this truth is consumable in haste.

A quick pass through.

A chuckle.

A laugh.

An exhale through the nostrils.

Yet some truth is not.

Some truth must be reread over and over and over.

This is when it is truly truth.

For that jumble of existing and non-existing words and pairings and compounds means something.

It does. It does.

(Does it?)

So I ask, if you are reading this pretentious collection of language - whether it be mine or yours or others.

And it seems as though the words form nothing.

As though your brain feels as an abyss does at 3am.

Before you turn the page.

Re-read those words.


Re-read those words.


Re-read those words.


Re-read those words.

Consider the lines. Their possibilities. Their context. Their connection.

[Replace “Their” with “Your”]

Consider the lines. Your possibilities. Your context. Your connection.

And push yourself.


Push yourself to see past the pieces and into the puzzle.


And then turn the page.


For it is not healthy to dwell on the words of others,

Especially Mine.

For you’d just be wasting,

your time.

Austin Gill
Charlie Cluff


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