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Literature Text
attention: artists are those who have tapped
into the collective unconscious, either by insanity
or forceful injection, inducing a state in which the eyes
become obsolete, as well as any kinesthetic, olfactory,
or auditory senses. pure creation exists in the absence
of tangible inspiration: history books written in glossolalia,
thoughts descended from the rainbow serpent, memories
existing in an everlasting dreamtime, transcendent of meaning.
into the collective unconscious, either by insanity
or forceful injection, inducing a state in which the eyes
become obsolete, as well as any kinesthetic, olfactory,
or auditory senses. pure creation exists in the absence
of tangible inspiration: history books written in glossolalia,
thoughts descended from the rainbow serpent, memories
existing in an everlasting dreamtime, transcendent of meaning.
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Literature
Of All the Places in the Universe
She was a button girl. Thirteen and already too old to be beautiful with grimy cheekbones accented by listless, golden-gray hair. She spent her time trying to sell her collection, dozens of buttons lined neatly in a haggard box. The large one with tiny flowers etched into them, a plain navy one, and the bright pink button were her favorites. They were the ones she hoped would find a home in some little girl's cherished dress or a mother's apron.
With her coat straining around her, eyes crowded with years of cold and unease, she held out her box to a passerby. Buttons flashed in the muted light, but the man scoffed as he continued past her. S
Literature
the witch's house.
I want to be the home of whispers,
the house of dripping water and blooming
plants, the shelter of childish drawings
and books with broken spines; I want to
hear the gossiping mothers tell their gossiping
daughters how my home is full of fresh air and
the feeling of watching a sunrise in a new country.
The windows would all be open, gauzy and
bright curtains billowing in the breeze
the high rise would always have, and no door
would have a lock and some doorways would
have no door; music would drift to the
pavement below and everyone would hear
the crooning voices of men with diamonds for
teeth and the plucked strings of instruments that
Literature
snowglobe
we hoped it would get bad enough to break glass
that one of our voices
would find the note
to split the window
make a neighbour call the cops
that the dishes would shatter
into too many pieces
to be picked off the floor
we wanted glass in our heels
a trickle of heat
a flicker of colour
in the sun-blank snow
the pines leaned on our doorframe
we waited for them
to pressure in and unfurl
shower our stunned faces
in a rain of needles
knock the teapot off the table
in a blossom of shards
but the trees stood by
evergreen and identical
the same dream of pine repeating
behind yellowing plastic
we painted shut the door
with smi
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i was blazed when i wrote this; i am perfectly aware it's jung.
© 2013 - 2024 glossolalias
Comments14
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i'm feeling and all enlightened and whatnot thanks to this beautifully worded piece. 