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Literature Text
They say that this is the age when
you start thinking in images
rather than words. Here are some words:
"You shouldn't have gone in there. What
happened to your clothes?" Leftover
pictures: On the wall, a woman's
photo plastered above a bunk,
legs open. Other senses kick
in: The bouquet of soil threading
between the boards, a door closing
in the adjacent room, moist breath
on the small of your back. Recall
playing the rug on the hollow
floor, underlooking the gravel
road: Sometimes there are others with
you; sometimes there is a man whose
face is a thumbprint. Mostly you're
alone, but there's still that friendly
whitethorn scraping the window. They
bulldozed it while you were away,
to put up a yellow stable
for thoroughbreds. But the willow
which used to hide its façade is
still there. It's next to the silo
where yellow striped spiders—you called
them "fiss-sized" in those days—consumed
and reconstructed their homes each
night. Remember abducting young
grasshoppers to rattle their webs?
In your picture-thoughts you marveled
at how quick that motionless X
became with a nymph smothered in
its silk. Their two jumper legs would
kick at the spiracles of their
aggressor's; the four little ones
bent and curled like ungreased hinges.
You always had a chuckle at
their dance of kicks and needle bites.
More words: "Sometimes they got away."
you start thinking in images
rather than words. Here are some words:
"You shouldn't have gone in there. What
happened to your clothes?" Leftover
pictures: On the wall, a woman's
photo plastered above a bunk,
legs open. Other senses kick
in: The bouquet of soil threading
between the boards, a door closing
in the adjacent room, moist breath
on the small of your back. Recall
playing the rug on the hollow
floor, underlooking the gravel
road: Sometimes there are others with
you; sometimes there is a man whose
face is a thumbprint. Mostly you're
alone, but there's still that friendly
whitethorn scraping the window. They
bulldozed it while you were away,
to put up a yellow stable
for thoroughbreds. But the willow
which used to hide its façade is
still there. It's next to the silo
where yellow striped spiders—you called
them "fiss-sized" in those days—consumed
and reconstructed their homes each
night. Remember abducting young
grasshoppers to rattle their webs?
In your picture-thoughts you marveled
at how quick that motionless X
became with a nymph smothered in
its silk. Their two jumper legs would
kick at the spiracles of their
aggressor's; the four little ones
bent and curled like ungreased hinges.
You always had a chuckle at
their dance of kicks and needle bites.
More words: "Sometimes they got away."
Literature
Euphrosyne
dawn.
legs splash from milky sheets.
she rises from the bed like a wave
and crests, just before bare feet touch wood
and fog crawls across the mirror.
midmorning.
footsteps leave damp prints on the floor.
she sings in muted tendrils that float through
hollow rooms.
the sun dries her hair with copper fingers.
noon.
the shadows bunch beneath her feet
and she tosses them across the sky-
painting clouds over the staring sun.
mile-long legs stretch across the world
and she
makes love to the hand-me-down earth.
afternoon.
her quickened breath becomes the wind
and sails ships across the seven seas.
dusk.
when the sun grows w
Literature
Naughty Irish Spirits
Poor Molly Deegan was so very tired. She had done her nightly rituals in a stupor and when her fiery red head hit the pillow, she was gone into dreamland without a stray thought.
Her corgi's barks jolted Molly back to wakefulness and this, she couldn't ignore. With a muttered oath, she flung the blankets back and swung her feet over the side of the bed. She cringed at the cold air and grabbed a throw from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around her self. A blue streak of curses trailed along behind her as she stomped into the kitchen to investigate.
She was momentarily shaken out of her foul mood when she saw that the kitchen was undistu
Literature
Foresight
Debra Mae was an astonishingly good programmer.
Her code always worked correctly the first time, and she never missed a deadline. Her workspace was immaculate, but curiously devoid of personal effects. No framed pictures, no toys, just her small collection of pens lined up according to color and an inbox for the occasional old-school paper input.
Her computer was equally immaculate. Nothing extra on her desktop, no stray icons. If one peeked at her browser history there’d be nothing there but work-related google searches and company stuff.
She dressed neatly but very plainly. I suspected she had four dresses in her wardrobe an
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When I wrote this several months ago I realized that this was the first actual poem I've written since I began writing poetry.
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How is it that this doesnt have any faves or comments.
Much like your prose, this is just fantastic. In some cases, I would think that your dreams might fit a poem format very well.
Much like your prose, this is just fantastic. In some cases, I would think that your dreams might fit a poem format very well.