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« Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary, How Does Your Garden Grow? (by Laura Orem) | Main | Hump Day Time Travel: The 3rd Avenue Elevated, 1950's »

May 26, 2010

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I am never sure when I am reading flarf. The only time I am sure is when the poet precedes her poem with a statement: This is a flarf poem. Mostly I don't care if the poem identifies as flarf or not. I don't pay attention to the poem's ethnic identity. If the poem moves me, I like it. Does it move me, make me a little thoughtful or pleased or sad or anything. That's the only criterion that matters, to me anyway.

Congratulations Sharon, this rocks.

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I left it
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left the house
for the pleasure
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ten hours later
to the greatness
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"After You've Gone"
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in the corner
of the bedroom
as I enter
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