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		<title>Terrance Brown | WritersCafe.org</title>
		<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/Stophs</link>
		<description>The original writings of author Terrance Brown</description>
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		<copyright>Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org</copyright>
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		<ttl>15</ttl>
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			<title>Cities of man</title>
			<description>I have tried to write a moment in space and time, and this is the result. While a great many things changed the humanity of people remained constant, and I have tried to do justice to that humanity.  </description>
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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Stophs/1163748/</link>
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			<title>A Bull, Catalonia</title>
			<description>Lean, tough.Muscle built him,Bunched up around his neckand his horns&amp;nbsp;menaced&amp;nbsp;low.Once a fighting bull of some&amp;nbsp;pedigree,now for the most part a statement,a morality.His pen spacious.Trough watered.Hay bailed.Still.Something in the autumn breezethat ruffled the auburn leavesof nearby tr..</description>
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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Stophs/1046505/</link>
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			<title>Structure</title>
			<description>The dishes sing in the shower.The laundry sleeps in the bath.If you stand on your headYou might see my couchcosy in the hammock of my self,my television is the abyss that stairs back.Outside the ponderous extractor fans humand satellite dishes dream of the stars.These walls pulse,their corners as na..</description>
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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Stophs/1043710/</link>
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			<title>Cast my Bones</title>
			<description>My biceps bind my humeri,clavicles and scapulas conspire to steal my breath.Caffeine jitters juggle my ribs,my pit as hollow as snow.The wind blows,the kettle boils,the laundry dries.But oh my, my bones.My metatarsals trade taps for ticks with the clock in thehall...</description>
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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Stophs/810174/</link>
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			<title>Chapter 1</title>
			<description>This is essentially an introduction to the cast of this book. A bit of scene setting if you will. There is a prologue to go with it, but I am rewriting it so it will have to come later.</description>
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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Stophs/778826/</link>
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			<title>The Way Home</title>
			<description>This story is about the pressure of familial obligations, and about what life comes to mean to you as the amount of it you have at your disposal decreases. This box won't let me say any more then that</description>
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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Stophs/778825/</link>
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			<title>Between Dreams</title>
			<description>Its raining again.Pitter-patter splatters onroof tilesare a sweet way to wake.Time for gum boots andsplashes. I&amp;rsquo;ll leap into the air,high and free and floatingandcrash down to shatter thesmooth surface.&amp;nbsp;It&amp;rsquo;s school time again.The play grou..</description>
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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Stophs/777728/</link>
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			<title>I need some body</title>
			<description>'Remember that you are a human being with a soul and the divine gift of articulate speech'

Henry Higgins, Pygmalion.</description>
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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Stophs/776284/</link>
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			<title>Keep your fat fascist fingers off my pension</title>
			<description>The title of this poem is actually something that I heard a teacher shouting into the face of a police officer during the demonstration.

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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Stophs/759567/</link>
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			<title>The field mouse</title>
			<description>&quot;The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley&quot;

Robert Burns</description>
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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Stophs/752918/</link>
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			<title>Angst </title>
			<description>A cul-de-sac at night in a suburb of London.Descartes' ether is the glowfrom&amp;nbsp;lamppost&amp;nbsp;lights as it pools in the street,&amp;nbsp;washes over dead cars,&amp;nbsp;and breaks along the sidewalk.It is immune from the wind that has putan electric spasm in the trees anda howl on the edges of every darke..</description>
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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Stophs/745662/</link>
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			<title>An ode to the disused</title>
			<description>Life goes on, even for things that are not alive</description>
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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Stophs/740057/</link>
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			<title>Yesterday</title>
			<description>Our journey was weaving the winding high road&amp;nbsp;along the edge of existence,&amp;nbsp;in the land of the others ancestorsthat I claim as home.&amp;nbsp;The cold crisp air pushed my face,bludgeoned my eyes and nose&amp;nbsp;who paid in slight pain and tearsfor this glance and this memory.In this the oldest of..</description>
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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Stophs/739526/</link>
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			<title>I met a German composer outside the central bus station</title>
			<description>In his brown trench coathe danced with a disposable coffee cup.His fingers played the breeze and his metronome head kept time.Out of money and kicked out of his hotel,out of his mind in eyes that never saw a heart.He was me&amp;nbsp;andI was elsewhere.Standing there in a hard hat and steel toes&amp;nbsp;I f..</description>
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			<link>http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Stophs/739492/</link>
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