Eye Candy, Photography, Poetry, Words
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semantic satiation

Words by Amelia Anthony
Photography by Pablo Gaeta


a partial case study of “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot

i hadn’t seen Michealango
yet and i hadn’t seen god. sure
i miss the way i used to write
now and I think i have seen both
In the past week. funny how
Things like this work out “that’s a
thing people say but it has
NO meaning.
neither do i tell myself. suddenly
this month heaven sounds
delicious. spiritual people
live differently
and i am so optimistic about
death and am confused about the
tears on deaths. i can’t cry about
anything but myself.
no sign from God to confirm. am
i ever going to change the world?
why does it matter when i can
go to Washington. a body
of mine is a body of yours Michael-



Is feeling cold an emotion?
Sometimes, it’s so much more
than a temperature. Or a lack of heat

I know that space is cold
I am slightly cold
Therefore, I am a space.

I carve little spaces
in notebooks. in pillows.
I like to be slightly confined? held?
by arms (by walls)

What are we doing here, creating space
“holding space” safe space
I need space. space bar.
There’s the semantic satiation.

Space cold, space could
even be dreamlike!
On Earth, are we in space?


a partial case study of “At Night the States” by Alice Notley

Can I even write like this
Like this and now
Can I even call you this?
Who writes the rules
I, once, was betrothed with the words.
I am sorry I cannot produce more
Now and then and I am
Sorry am I always faking it

If these letters were not mine
Who am I to use them? To
Proclaim them and to
Proclaim to them. Not me.
I have missed a certain
I have travelled no where and I still
Can see you on this
Unspecified and unspecial

And to so begin.
(my love.) A continuation
of where he has
Left off and these are just
Words and those are merely actions.
For someone like me this is hard

Why do I get so fixated? You
You should be able to answer
That by now. You
know me better than her and
know me apart from
Just a formation of
Blood and gore and sculptural

For a mere night this is fitful.
For just words this is monumental and
All my sentences are so
Passive and all my words are the same.
You are everything (Again
And again I write this)
I cannot be perhaps but we are similar
these are merely thoughts.

With each begin there is an inevitability
I wonder if you think that way too
Too morbid and if you’d like to visit
Mausoleums and wonder about the
Lack of space


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