• a.p. duvall


Be my hand at the crucifixion

Be my veins, my synapse and

my addiction

Be total and incomplete

Be shifting tides and wine

Too ripe to drink

Be my guitar and its silver strings

Be my love, my love

My love for all things

Be my Twenty dollar bill

And my pack of cigarettes

Be my ever and always

quivering lip

Be a flash of light and

incense in the room

Be not my direction

Or dust inside a tomb

Be the bed we lay in

Be the sun inside the room

Be the silent laughter

Be the face inside the moon

Be my clean fingernails

And the dirt patch on my jeans

Be my love, my love

My love for all things.


Recent Posts

See All


So, there was this mile long snake in my front yard. He'd been slithering past all day it seemed, and I could still pick out shapes of what the damn thing had ate. There was a wheelchair (sans owner),

Last Living Anarchist

Say hello to the last living Anarchist Say hello to the fast dealing switch Straight and narrow strayed the arrow and forever was he taught a glass and mutable thought in a subterranean husk mimicking

Golgatha in 25 km.

Twas 14th century China, and I was perched on my village's highest defense wall, looking out into the heavens on this one particular summer evening, when it happened to me. I was concentrating a parti

© 2020 by a.p. duvall.
  • Twitter