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Literature Text
The girl drops the words.
They clatter like kitchen plates.
The boy picks them up
Piece by piece, wraps them
In gauze and hands them back.
I’m across the hall so I can see them.
This is only reason why I know this so
the girl goes and sits on the steps
And delicately unwraps the package.
Some of the pieces tumble down.
I venture to guess she doesn’t want
them anymore and that maybe I shouldn’t
be watching something so vulnerable.
And so I close the door.
Then I guess the pieces clawed into her skin.
That's when, my neighbors say, she sliced off
her ears bit by bit, and left them at their apartment door.
They all agreed it was very courageous of her.
The words showed up again when the baby was born.
First, it was hidden in a diaphanous shroud of silence
And then the most wonderful thing. The crying.
They clatter like kitchen plates.
The boy picks them up
Piece by piece, wraps them
In gauze and hands them back.
I’m across the hall so I can see them.
This is only reason why I know this so
the girl goes and sits on the steps
And delicately unwraps the package.
Some of the pieces tumble down.
I venture to guess she doesn’t want
them anymore and that maybe I shouldn’t
be watching something so vulnerable.
And so I close the door.
Then I guess the pieces clawed into her skin.
That's when, my neighbors say, she sliced off
her ears bit by bit, and left them at their apartment door.
They all agreed it was very courageous of her.
The words showed up again when the baby was born.
First, it was hidden in a diaphanous shroud of silence
And then the most wonderful thing. The crying.
Literature
Counting for Nothing
Fourteen hundred paces wasted
walking to your door,
and every time a pointless pounding
headache - sore, resounding, raw;
what follows next? as you'd expect
a shocking exhibition of
that bloody mix of tears
and spit and semen spilled
across this gritty floor.
and from the day that we last spoke
I've counted twenty-four.
How come I'm your ignored -
you must have grown so bored of me
and now my fingers, gnawed and nails all bitten
paw through scores
of letters better left unwritten -
never sent, now torn and scattered, littered
with my bitter thoughts unuttered,
so utterly distraught I am, I poured a litany of scorn
and lo
Literature
As If
If you can hold your drink when all about you
are losing theirs and aiming it at you,
if you can drive your car when all men doubt you,
but make allowance for the coppers too;
or need to pee but not be tired by waiting,
or after peeing dont forget your flies;
on politics or football start debating
and yet dont look too good nor talk too wise.
If you can drink and not make drink your master;
if you can talk and not make sense your aim;
if you can still stand up although youre plastered
and shout at passing women dirty names;
if you can bear to hear the truth tomorrow
of how you acted like a total fool
and
Literature
Reverie
I.
They say every woman is a piece of the moon,
but I want the sun.
Dear Apollo, explain to me why you gave up
clear mornings for the shadowy future.
And I'll make you wish you hadn't burned a time before.
Because he's still sleeping, turned towards the window,
the thick blinds cracking with sunlight in the early dawn.
The navy sheets his royal dress, the rays his glory crown.
I wake up next to a god on Sunday morning,
hands still dirty from the night before.
II.
But when I sleep, I dream of rhyming big words
Building them on top of each other, letting it touch the sky.
I rub up against them once in awhile to test their stren
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Comments4
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Um, I totally concur with the last poster except that I'm the 2nd to comment. This is seriously a quietly masterful piece of work, and I need to +fav now (for the first time this month, I believe!)
Excuse me while I reread
Excuse me while I reread