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Literature Text
feigning euphoria
on the outskirts of joliet,
i saw You between red glowing streams:
weaving the horizon like a tapestry,
recycling gold beads from a pale morning sari,
dyeing blue-violet fever, shivers
leaking from my head down my arms,
resting in my belly beside You—mixing veins in the night,
embellishing the road with thoughts
of creation: You spin a thread and it unwinds,
fraying at the ends where the cars break the asphalt
and i convulse,
spinning out of control—You doe-eyed like the kid
who crashed his mother's car and dies heavy beneath
that semi, stuck in the pitch dark, oil blearing opalescent
under the gaping taillights—streetlights—headlights—
Your light,
feigning euphoria
on the outskirts of joliet.
on the outskirts of joliet,
i saw You between red glowing streams:
weaving the horizon like a tapestry,
recycling gold beads from a pale morning sari,
dyeing blue-violet fever, shivers
leaking from my head down my arms,
resting in my belly beside You—mixing veins in the night,
embellishing the road with thoughts
of creation: You spin a thread and it unwinds,
fraying at the ends where the cars break the asphalt
and i convulse,
spinning out of control—You doe-eyed like the kid
who crashed his mother's car and dies heavy beneath
that semi, stuck in the pitch dark, oil blearing opalescent
under the gaping taillights—streetlights—headlights—
Your light,
feigning euphoria
on the outskirts of joliet.
A Bit of Love
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Literature
stonemaze
sometimes, I pretend
our home is tinnitus
I scrape pine needles
into a horizontal bowl.
twisted scenery
settling in like snow
inside my finger
bones, stirring
up sparks. he
may be the last
explosive, a
fire fight that bites
through my palms;
may be the last
crackling
monolith to collect
spacedust on
his loneliness.
I should be left alon
Literature
-
death knocks on your
door with a crooked little grin
and tells you that he'd like
his tea with two sugars, please,
and that you'd better start packing;
but only bring your valuables
because he's got no room in his hearse
for remorse
Literature
conspire, respire
let me tie your hair in sinews
let me
wash it with matrix and cleanse
the pyruvates waiting to be
bound
to me, let me
string them together like
photosystems in the lamella
right across the street.
we're complimentary,
anti-parallel, anti-
social, anti-everything but
let me tie your hair in something bigger
than what we have; this
micro-world is no better
than the milli-
but at least in membrane-like
folds of a scrunchie
you'll have several (dead)
parts of you close
to the macro-world inside you.
yet
you are still larger
than the hundred-hair-you-lose-a-day
and nine-litres-of-water-bam-bam-gone
and half-a-million-gone-to-waste-
on-a-diagn
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Comments24
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this is spiritual, in a way; i feel as though it hits me in a spot where few words are able to reach. it's astounding.