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Literature Text
Carnations
have grown inside my eyelids,
pollinated by june bugs
flecked with bright recording colors:
We were away
from noon till morning,
when everything
froze in amber
because the horizon twitched,
inverted indentations
of the damp sidewalk
planted in my skin.
He sat at my left,
picking week old plastic
and throwing it
onto the sandbar
for fish to eat:
I soon planned
to sleep
on Gabriel's blanket,
inside
a circular fountain
the city
hadn't turned on yet;
he replied
with nothing louder
than the lake
falling
on the shore:
Our sun rose higher
and bleached my consciousness:
I wake up
with mosquito bites
and flaking wool-worn elbows,
braiding stringy petals
into thoughts
and crowns.
have grown inside my eyelids,
pollinated by june bugs
flecked with bright recording colors:
We were away
from noon till morning,
when everything
froze in amber
because the horizon twitched,
inverted indentations
of the damp sidewalk
planted in my skin.
He sat at my left,
picking week old plastic
and throwing it
onto the sandbar
for fish to eat:
I soon planned
to sleep
on Gabriel's blanket,
inside
a circular fountain
the city
hadn't turned on yet;
he replied
with nothing louder
than the lake
falling
on the shore:
Our sun rose higher
and bleached my consciousness:
I wake up
with mosquito bites
and flaking wool-worn elbows,
braiding stringy petals
into thoughts
and crowns.
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Literature
from here to christian apology
in the end i break my teeth on the cyanide almond.
the capacity for evil is trivial and irreducible.
it is a rock in the bloodstream,
it tumbles in the purifier and never gets out.
no you can't wash this out. you can scrub & scratch yourself
into a corner through little transgressions.
they say loitering on the edge heightens one's senses
to things like pastel bricks of scarfwork
& liquor store workers who remember your name.
they say hanging up on scam calls will
cost you an earthquake. is this an earthquake?
what little love there is
slinks gently like a beanstalk
wilting on the steel fen
Literature
Curtain
I resurfaced,
the taste of salt and rare coins in my mouth.
I moved upward
like a swimmer
and kissed you properly so I might not
be alone.
The streetlight poured silver down your chest
through the open window
and your hair
sank pale and fragrant
into the edges of my vision
in the dark.
I could not see your eyes
so much as sense them,
as if they were familiar stones on a path I only walk
when I am in love.
I watched the curtain swaying nearby,
numb and ornate and rhythmic,
now and then touching your shoulder
the way I used to wish I could.
It moved like a sleeve
just before a hand emerges,
restless yet un-alive,
prophesying in half-
Literature
above the takeaway
Together,
we had become sculptors
carving our affairs into the mortar
and listening to the convoluted banter
through paper thin walls.
Our poverty became romantic
and perhaps,
deluded
as we lived by candlelight
and danced to the neighbours' Beatles album.
In reality
we lived like cockroaches -
a pair of many
in a big city
our dreams diverted
amongst the morning commute,
and the last sips, of the day's first brew
Paul McCartney sang Blackbird
and I watched bleary eyed
at the winter sun, smoulder, as
my belly grew with hope
and joyful fear.
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Comments15
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Hi there!
I have borrowed the wonderful title of your piece for an AWESOME project that uses titles of existing deviations to form the lines of a Found Poem. The idea is to pay attention to titles, which can make or break a piece, and to give exposure to as many deviants as possible.
If you would like to see the poem, you can read it here.