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Literature Text
it churns in loco parentis:
the watchful murmur of a thousand eyes,
the cult of full-moon secrets unraveling.
honey,
it's snowing in the city, and she's wondering whether
it's true that
the smoothest arc
of her greatest art-
work
is one of those soft peaks
that cookbooks
drag out of your
egg-beating.
oh - the lens is gone,
and the sky is strawberry-red, mouthing up
the spires of the city and the choruses of bird-calls
that bind the looping anthracite veins
together like a
propeller, an alleyway in December, her feet
tripping over more than the gored engine and wings
of some Cessna, for this is the new landscape
of the night, and the magnetic
underworld fanfare
of siphoned sleep.
the watchful murmur of a thousand eyes,
the cult of full-moon secrets unraveling.
honey,
it's snowing in the city, and she's wondering whether
it's true that
the smoothest arc
of her greatest art-
work
is one of those soft peaks
that cookbooks
drag out of your
egg-beating.
oh - the lens is gone,
and the sky is strawberry-red, mouthing up
the spires of the city and the choruses of bird-calls
that bind the looping anthracite veins
together like a
propeller, an alleyway in December, her feet
tripping over more than the gored engine and wings
of some Cessna, for this is the new landscape
of the night, and the magnetic
underworld fanfare
of siphoned sleep.
Literature
Benedictions
God joined a monastery
somewhere in Europe, where
the churches are old
but the people are older
still, overlaid hands sodden
with faith and speckled with dust.
He rose before the sun and prayed
to Himself nine times a day
among his brothers of the cloth,
who mumbled psalms into their palms
and knew they were heard.
Literature
remuneration
there were dreams of abasement, tearing up at the thought of
the noxious corners of your eyes. i saw them at a glance and fell
headfirst in the Styx, catching billowing waves of uncertainty and
heartache. they crashed with a decade-begrudged mind that was far
from healing -- far from me.
and though the fall was abrasive and the
waves, their own harangue, their heartache
and toxins faded & found graphite talismans
engraved in a red wrist warmer.
the ground that my blood decorated, with a history of broken bone
marrows now showed how unnecessary a transplant w
Literature
bataillon
je ne peux plus
fortifier
mon cœur de guerre
contre toi ;
tu es un mort
en miniature,
une petite exécution.
chaque fois que j’essaie
de regarder tes yeux
sans reculer,
je suis assassinée.
et tu me dis
“dans ce monde,
on est ou on suit.”
je suis.
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© 2013 - 2024 goose-fat
Comments4
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Great work here! A whole slew of images come to mind.