Writings by Thomas Dunbar

Thanks to Continuist hearththrob, Tom Dunbar, for sending us some words.

Someone’s mother told a story to another person and it was overheard like this, “That boy freaked out again. He threw his money in a street drain and then laughed like a murder of crows might laugh. That boy ran for mayor. He stood on the platform he fashioned out of morbid fables. But, he soon freaked out again. Awake for days and running short on patience, that boy put on his nicest suit jacket and walked thirty miles to the largest bank he knew of. That boy was stopped by security, but that boy freaked out and scared them off. He approached the youngest available teller. That boy began to cry. The teller was very confused by this since people don’t normally cry in banks, and especially in a bank of this size. That boy asked, no, begged for a loan of money. He was denied the loan and then freaked out.” This mother was respected for knowing a great deal of things that have happened in the world’s past. This boy was one of those things.

The Continuing Story of a Body.
Tonight: my dick gets a wrinkle.
There is nothing hot nearby to iron it out.
It’s creased, thrown in the corner like an ugly sweater.
Leonard Cohen is in my dream and he is directing the pornographic film of my life.
After reviewing the footage he decides to release it as a Tide commercial instead.
I didn’t shit for five days à my lower bits are in awful cahoots.
I sit backed up though I still have the most vivid ideas I have had in months.
Old women are recently sexualized and children become envied.
I read sex in every face and frame.
Children have it good. I don’t want friends.
I want a lover or a fuck or a friend naked beside me and soon to be on top of me.
Why didn’t we find spirituality together? Was my body brash and confusing?
People in love make my fist tighter than my colon.
At this age I must wait.

A prepubescent mess.
Bald on bald.
The linen folds like a bluffing drunk.
A couch A bed A couch.
The ceiling floor boards shut her up.
Piano. Mezzo.
The couch embracing the spine.
Screams out of tune.
Forte. The stairs chattering.
Bald OFF bald.
Folding sheets at an irate tempo.


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