A poem

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Photo by Joey Nicotra on Unsplash

We are turned on,
but turned away towards
the smoking ticket of enlightenment.

We pace mezzanines beyond
the mind’s most lonely doors,
where blood boils cheeks to mush
and purples our digits and limbs
until they are each a fleshier,
more desperate sex organ
of their own.

Upon this stage,
consciousness is too solid
and the body too liquid.
Pleasure is too painful
and its release too ready
to return and squeeze

Every eye, every gland,
every node, and every fantasy
bold enough to squat within
the imagination is inflamed
and swells like a bubble
about to burst, but
that never will. …

A poem about the timelessness of The Beatles

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The Beatles performing on “The Ed Sullivan Show”

The bubble never
burst, it only
flew off beyond

It rises up, up,
and in a way
that no other
bubble ever
could or will

It reaches
The Tops
any need
or desire for
The Pops.

It’s akin
to the sun
that hovers
our little world
and day-out.

How our eyes
never leap
from their
when we look
in the mirror.

The way
this spinning ball
of soil and ocean
never falls away
beneath our

If we let it be,
it will float on
for as long as
we do, further
and further down
our garden path.

The bubble
may be soft,
may be delicate,
may be ever-so
fragile, but
it is always

Like god,
like peace,
like love itself —
there never could
be any other


Aaron Quist

Poet. Reach out: aaronsweetjane@gmail.com

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