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Corrine De Winter has been a freelance writer for about 19 years. Her work has been published in over 600 journals, books and magazines including New York Quarterly, The Writer, Space & Time, Tales of the Unanticipated, The Other Side, Yankee, Prisoners of the Night Poet's Market 92-99, and others. Her work has been nominated twice for The Pushcart Prize and most recently for The Rhysling Award.

Dark Planet is designed and edited by Lucy A. Snyder. If you spot any errors, or if you have any comments, please contact her at lusnyde@cyberus.ca.

All materials copyright 1996-2000 by their respective creators. No stories, articles, poems or images from this webzine may be posted or published without the written consent of their creator(s).

The Things of Youth Are Wild Horses

by Corrine De Winter

Beautiful boy,
blonde androgynous angel
whose skin hums of summer.
You fall out of Eden
to go in search of the pusher.
You slide, rather than walk,
down Sunset
where Morrison exacted his myth.
And the girls who are pink and raw
with all the promise
their eyes can hold
give you what you need.
In the rooms at the Chateau Marmont
they come to you.
They rise from the dead
to taste your sweetness.
And in these motel and hotel mirrors,
wiped clean each morning,
you are told
You Will Be Beautiful Forever.
Does it matter
that an overweight comedian
died a little each night on these bathroom tiles.
Does it matter that a 17 year old prostitute
was strangled and stuffed
beneath the sink.
Does it matter?
The stars will keep shining
in their mad constellations.
The curves of the rich
will keep being kind.
Little ones in countries we'll never see
will continue to wake with hunger pains.
And throughout all
you will be beautiful.

You tried to be holy
but the world-eaters consumed you.
You tried to remember the hues
of your first sunset,
the high dives from the precipice
of the gorge near your childhood home.
You tried to remember the smell
of oleander and earth in July,
the color of the dragonflies
that frightened your little sister.
You tried to remember how warm
the summer rain felt across your forehead.
But these things were ashes
in your own holocaust.

The things of youth are wild horses.

And it is no mystery
the way the world turns.
They smile and they move on.
They smile and they move on.