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Literature Text
today, they're all talking about the fires.
the people on TV, the voices on the radio,
the mouths that open and whisper
and softly touch tongues. even the sky is
revealing black plumes of smoke,
flaunting shameless and seductive curves.
the rain's been too dry and the lightning
isn't wet enough, panic is
rising out of control in this
burning city. that's
not all;
we have a crisis on
our hands- the balloons are
running out of air and even
the experts don't really know why,
and on top of those sinking rubber toys
my soul is losing moisture
faster than the crackling grass under the duress of flame.
i'm starting to see the subtle luscious contours
of fumes,
surrounding me.
i might not exactly be news-worthy
but if i catch, then
the forest might too.
i'm considered a reasonable loss, however.
they heard it might storm tomorrow. and everybody knows
that means they'll be safe-
because they all talk about it.
it almost stormed-
the sky spat and then
thought better of it, we
aren't worth the little bit of sultry
liquid clinging to
his mouth. (were i the sky
i would give you every strand of saliva i had;
press it into your tongue and cheeks,
leave traces against your hot skin.)
the birds are dying because of spite, choking
on ink smothered air as they
seek escape. we're still determining
the root cause but birds don't know about things
like arsony, because they just aren't like us.
similar, but not the same. they don't light
matches to gasoline with red lips
and smile as they burn each other down,
like you and i
will.
breathe, won't you
dear? don't gasp in my hands,
don't choke,
don't choke,
please,
don't leave me here
like this.
now, proud headlines read- our firefighters are
confident that they
are breaking through.
the death blow is coming and the flames
will starve.
i think they are looking
in the wrong places.
the fire hides, but i see the smoke of her
growing passions, stretching out
and grasping at the edges of her hands, climbing
like a climax that leaves you gasping,
oh,
the gentle dip between her breasts
is in the man that desperately
grabs the five dollars
from my hand like a snake
with cinder coal fingers.
(and i don't know if his burning greed for
my change is calories or
booze or drugs or a roof.) the smoulder of her open lips is
in the sweating, middle aged man
walking determinately
across the ash black street and hoping
it burns an inch off his round gut,
eventually. a glimpse of her parted thighs slips like smoke
behind the nice looking
young man
walking down the street,
with the bag over his shoulder putting wrinkles in his
suit.
this feverish city
is still being burned.
the people on TV, the voices on the radio,
the mouths that open and whisper
and softly touch tongues. even the sky is
revealing black plumes of smoke,
flaunting shameless and seductive curves.
the rain's been too dry and the lightning
isn't wet enough, panic is
rising out of control in this
burning city. that's
not all;
we have a crisis on
our hands- the balloons are
running out of air and even
the experts don't really know why,
and on top of those sinking rubber toys
my soul is losing moisture
faster than the crackling grass under the duress of flame.
i'm starting to see the subtle luscious contours
of fumes,
surrounding me.
i might not exactly be news-worthy
but if i catch, then
the forest might too.
i'm considered a reasonable loss, however.
they heard it might storm tomorrow. and everybody knows
that means they'll be safe-
because they all talk about it.
it almost stormed-
the sky spat and then
thought better of it, we
aren't worth the little bit of sultry
liquid clinging to
his mouth. (were i the sky
i would give you every strand of saliva i had;
press it into your tongue and cheeks,
leave traces against your hot skin.)
the birds are dying because of spite, choking
on ink smothered air as they
seek escape. we're still determining
the root cause but birds don't know about things
like arsony, because they just aren't like us.
similar, but not the same. they don't light
matches to gasoline with red lips
and smile as they burn each other down,
like you and i
will.
breathe, won't you
dear? don't gasp in my hands,
don't choke,
don't choke,
please,
don't leave me here
like this.
now, proud headlines read- our firefighters are
confident that they
are breaking through.
the death blow is coming and the flames
will starve.
i think they are looking
in the wrong places.
the fire hides, but i see the smoke of her
growing passions, stretching out
and grasping at the edges of her hands, climbing
like a climax that leaves you gasping,
oh,
the gentle dip between her breasts
is in the man that desperately
grabs the five dollars
from my hand like a snake
with cinder coal fingers.
(and i don't know if his burning greed for
my change is calories or
booze or drugs or a roof.) the smoulder of her open lips is
in the sweating, middle aged man
walking determinately
across the ash black street and hoping
it burns an inch off his round gut,
eventually. a glimpse of her parted thighs slips like smoke
behind the nice looking
young man
walking down the street,
with the bag over his shoulder putting wrinkles in his
suit.
this feverish city
is still being burned.
Literature
relearning
i. stardust scatters with the
direction of my pupils –
maybe secretly i am an
astrology teacher, waiting
for a sign to wink
happily at me.
ii. excuse the rambling
nature of forgotten question
marks, but tell me:
would you like to be the
object of handwritten clichés
would you like to whisper
secrets in my palm
and would you
like to be the possibility
iii. air brushes against my
skin like the torn petals
of a flower still standing.
[ hold your head up high, honey,
and tell tomorrow to wait just
a while,
iv. so you can figure out
the difference between
patience and having all the
Literature
starspun
we inhale the romanticism
of hooded cemetery kids
smoking cigarettes pretending
they are not dead.
you were always so sure
about my uncertainty,
you watched
all my pick up lines
drop things
into open graves
meant for us.
your eyes always wandered
down thoughtful
leaf-strewn paths.
i wanted to ask you
if i could follow
but i came alone this time
i remember our innocence
in the static b e t w e e n
stars, think
about how youth without you is th-
awing out the lines in my whittled-out eyes
i look to the hooded
cemetery kids,
wonder what we'd have been like
if we grew up as nothings,
like them. teenage
nothings with chiseled
marble in our
vo
Literature
I Mean to Get You Alone
You have sharp
pulse-elevating teeth
the stuff I imagine heart attacks
are made of
I'm bent on selling you a handful of smiles
specifically crafted
to distract you from the fact that
I have almost nothing to say
and now you're steering this conversation
in a direction that suggests you've
forgotten that I
don't watch movies or do much of
anything but work which maybe
explains why one glass of wine gets me
wrapped around you
car to streetlight
crash style
mangled limbs
breeding curious onlookers and my insurance has
expired
you're leaning in and all I can think is
I don't have insurance
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NOTICE: there has been much editing.
are they good changes?
------------------------------------------
oh my... you are a strange little poem.
please please please give me feedback for this one!
did i do a good job piecing the parts together? does it flow, act as a single piece? are the fiction and reality working together? what do you think of this compared to my other works? is the imagery ok still? (i take pride in my imagery, i'd like it to still be considered good.) anything else you'd like to add?
i'm trying to move my poetry a bit. trying to add more hard lines and realism to my more fantastic imagery. (its not like i use fantasy... its just a bit more whimsical normally.) what do you think? its still my style, just... incorporating some more real life, i think. concrete, not just emotion. but did i add enough of the non-fiction into it?
its been an interesting project to write. (proudeyes did help me design the idea without knowing it... since her poetry has been evolving so beautifully recently :] )
hm. i think i need to work on what i do with my words.
---------
feedback, comments, and critiques are super wecome and appreciated :]
are they good changes?
------------------------------------------
oh my... you are a strange little poem.
please please please give me feedback for this one!
did i do a good job piecing the parts together? does it flow, act as a single piece? are the fiction and reality working together? what do you think of this compared to my other works? is the imagery ok still? (i take pride in my imagery, i'd like it to still be considered good.) anything else you'd like to add?
i'm trying to move my poetry a bit. trying to add more hard lines and realism to my more fantastic imagery. (its not like i use fantasy... its just a bit more whimsical normally.) what do you think? its still my style, just... incorporating some more real life, i think. concrete, not just emotion. but did i add enough of the non-fiction into it?
its been an interesting project to write. (proudeyes did help me design the idea without knowing it... since her poetry has been evolving so beautifully recently :] )
hm. i think i need to work on what i do with my words.
---------
feedback, comments, and critiques are super wecome and appreciated :]
© 2012 - 2024 tsubame-33
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"soon you will be running down those burning streets, come on." (Joe Strummer) *whistle whistle*