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Literature Text
Raindrops keep falling on the heads
of semi-important dignitaries who have nothing
better to do than line up at doors
like cattle.
I don't know.
I just show up.
Take notes.
and erase.
Mistakes waste space but show
we are human
of semi-important dignitaries who have nothing
better to do than line up at doors
like cattle.
I don't know.
I just show up.
Take notes.
and erase.
Mistakes waste space but show
we are human
Literature
Held
We loved like arson:
After-sex after-
glow floats around like smoke, and distorts us,
restless, and tangles around the rafters,
the room imbued: remnants of star-fuelled lust.
We loved like fireworks, comets and fireflies.
We traced paths through constellations for hours,
across freckled skies, tasting the stars
with every kiss. The night went on for miles.
Now a cathartic still whispers, lingers
as the room burns orange in the morning's
luster. The carmine light bares a warning:
To keep my distance, or I'd clash with hers.
I leave her to draw the blinds, casting shad-
ows like prison-cell bars across
Literature
No-one forgets a good teacher
"Listen to me or I'll break your legs"
- Steve Thompson
Dear Sir. Not sir. It's automatic.
Sorry Steve. Dear Steve. I'm fed
On seven years of autocratic
Tiffinisms: "genuflect
to teachers." Seven years' emphatic
Faire-sans-dire still in my head.
Dear Steve. Your style was more dramatic
you taught life and art instead:
Stoppard, condoms, mathematics,
goatee beards and Berthold Brecht
and Bigmouth Strikes Again, such is
what you gave us, plus the threat
of a half a term on crutches
for ignoring you. Dear Steve - respect.
Literature
Suspended Animation
We will hide in rooms
of corpses in clear coffins;
our names carved into every surface,
our fortunes told in fish eyes
and sharks’ teeth.
We are frogs in formaldehyde,
puffed up like tear-stained faces,
motel pillows;
we are jellyfish in jars,
hanging like bleached willows;
tangled tentacles dangle, flaccid,
and spectres of the Pacific
will not stir us.
In the mother-of-pearl,
in the birds of paradise,
in the ribcages and tortoiseshells,
we linger, petrified,
and do not hope to be unearthed.
Now we stand like stick figures
pinned to twilight
as orange and blue hesitate in the sky;
starlings swarm across the stuttere
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I'm not sure when I wrote this. I found it in a book where I decided to write the happy things.
© 2013 - 2024 Jynx-Tsilevon
Comments4
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...I am not sure that is the happy thing, Jynx. >.>