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A Letter to Ernest Hemingway

Screw your bruised knuckles and broken bottles.
Old man, you’ve said your words are icebergs,
glimmers of elephants looming below:
but buddy, my sun is rising
the glaciers are melting
and beneath them there’s nothing
but rocks and black snow. You know
bells toll your sodden script:
write drunk, edit sober,
then edit drunk and burn the drafts.
Your short tight sentences share nothing but
so spare us the stories
of your short unhappy life.

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theshymoon said...
today at 10:25 am
I wish I could have wrote something like this
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