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Martha Ostheimer



In my dreams there is always a popular disease, something everyone really wants, something you can say you really have with certainty, a certain land of last chance strumming and numbing of desire. In my dreams the pretty girls need it the most, that [...]

November Sunday

To lie in the street. To be at the bottom of this puddle dark as lead. Near the curb, in the muddy cold water, to rot like the leaf of a poplar. Underneath the streetlamp. At the bottom of a puddle. Like a ticket from a tram or the scrap of a newspa [...]