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Poetry by Ben Passikov 

Ben's work has appeared in The Quarterly Review of Literature, The Atlanta, Pedestal Magazine, and many other journals.  He is a retired engineer from Flushing, New York.




© 2004  Ben Passikoff





Here's the deal.
Your mother holds your toes,
tush, etcetera,
until, fishwiggly,
you are expressed.

Where you were circle,
you now exist in squares;
repeat old oxygen;
labor old,
dying  of days.

Mid overkapping
of manic car alarms,
the urban furies hurtle you
to choice of morgues.

Ending is expensive:
conveyor carpentry,
thickness of lilies,
going away music.
Candles are chosen.
Ministers earn.

Overcoats huddle under
a blooming of umbrellas.
A momentary
disturbance of earth.
Clods on the coffin.
Omega to mother.







Your Thyness,
public blond sister,
royal neurotic of

smile tabloidal
and coif sustained
by old colonies:

channeled by Charon
in mangled Mercedes
to beauty salon

of endless chairs:
while printed millions
mourn your slim beak
in frontpage dolor.






All poems are copyrighted property of Ben Passikoff.



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