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Literature Text
Whinding through consonant symphonies
down the slumb'ring choices
in oscillating pavements,
dark with the rain of literary cacophony
And letting a mercantile pair of eyes
shoot a reserve of resplendence
up the bulging blue road
in the inside crook of an elbow
The intermittent false breaths; lies
of a titular falsehood, breathing
into a puerile pair of lips
the stark contradiction that is truth.
down the slumb'ring choices
in oscillating pavements,
dark with the rain of literary cacophony
And letting a mercantile pair of eyes
shoot a reserve of resplendence
up the bulging blue road
in the inside crook of an elbow
The intermittent false breaths; lies
of a titular falsehood, breathing
into a puerile pair of lips
the stark contradiction that is truth.
Literature
Honeystars
A budding morrow
rests and breathes
in the specks
of dusk
between your lashes.
Honeystars
they shine
within an earthly heaven,
sweet
safe promise
of warmth.
Like a chestnut leaf
placed
through the pages
of my restless story
you keep dreams
bright
and still.
Living proof
that firefly flames
can give rise
to an eternal
summer day,
you are
the laugh of the forest
after rain.
In your gaze:
ground castle
on the edge
of the world,
is the dark
made small.
Literature
no answer still means never
i’ve been up to my knees in river since you left
and honestly the cold’s numbed everything-
even the stars have winked to hush me
though the howls keep tearing through;
i wonder
how much sadness you can fit
into a paper throat
before it dissolves.
it’s been weeks since i’ve drawn enough breath
or reached out to touch a human hand:
i think i will rot here
sandwiched between grass and sky,
the weight of maybe
crushing this chest
until it bursts.
Literature
Right
Here's the bad news:
tomorrow
there will be a bird
on your doorstep.
Dead or dying, you think
it has something to do
with me. It does not.
There's the crux
you always think
the bird should rise up
and proclaim its killer,
its savior, should point out
which cat only watched and which
opened its mouth; which cat
is not a cat but a storm
or a window or another bird
and to be honest,
I would like these things too.
But it owes us only its death,
incapable of shaming
our compulsive involvement,
our need to make the bird
about ourselves.
You want to be jury
in an empty room. You want
to hold court
for every little thing
that makes you feel.
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Op. 48 No. 1
27 Feb 17
27 Feb 17
© 2017 - 2024 curls-and-yelling
Comments5
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they just don't get it. but in this world it's hard, no pun intended.