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My best friend Laura and I wrote an echo poem together just now, and I rather like it, so I'm posting it here. My stanzas are the first, third and fifth; the even-numbered are hers. It's called "Fluent tongues".

There's a butterfly alighting on the pommel of a sword,
like a sort of inset jewel.
and a rice-bowl, with a scratch down the side,
and a sunset and a tree.

There's a sword encountering a butterfly carried by the wind,
like a sort of ruined thing, it falls from the air.
and a scratch up the side of Hunger,
and a sunrise over bare land.

A book of spells and sparkles,
in the satchel of a bright-eyed girl.
Knows she'll bring some good,
drive away the dark and cold.

Some scraps of curses and rust,
in the fist of a dead-eyed woman.
Knows no good will come to her,
flee the daylight's warmth.

Young poets at twilight,
flickering candles and sweat and lust.
Words fail them at last,
tongues better-occupied, throats stilled.

Mute inhabitants of a fluorescent room,
Invariable brightness and nerves and disgust.
Words shunned them long ago,
withered tongues and wasted throats.
That's rather good. I enjoyed it, it's an interesting experiement, and it made it even more interesting when I finally got around to going to Wikipedia and figuring out what an echo poem is. Surrealism is teh roxxors
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