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Literature Text
Paint me greyscale.
Words hang thick like
cigarette smoke and slow jazz.
Turn your collar to the rain
and follow me into a 3 AM cab.
Give me your gritty romance,
Eyes flickering like
neon-signs
half past the red-light district.
Oh, you can touch,
my dear detective--
just don't leave any fingerprints.
Words hang thick like
cigarette smoke and slow jazz.
Turn your collar to the rain
and follow me into a 3 AM cab.
Give me your gritty romance,
Eyes flickering like
neon-signs
half past the red-light district.
Oh, you can touch,
my dear detective--
just don't leave any fingerprints.
Literature
drinkdrinkdrunk
anabolic alcoholic, summer
had dreams
of watching you soar through
hammock seams and i had
almost found your reluctance
sweet
but then liquor dripped
dropped
and ran rather deep -
mounds of molehills
you drained with coke
and found
merciless
vodka leaked jaws and i
told you the dreams;
the heights summer had
but you
liked disappoint-
-ment etched in your
left cleft joints
so swallowing, wallowing
in catabolic ache
liquid froze at the
nape of your
neck and this white-red-pink wine
you love somehow
stole summer's dreams
and winds and thaw.
Literature
romance.
I.
The daisies burned in the sunlight. His hair fell into his eyes as the long grass swallowed him, devoured his bones. From his outstretched hands grew wildflowers, their pollen pooling in his palms.
The sweet air seemed to choke me as I lifted my voice to the sky.
"It's all right. I don't mind," he replied, eyes drifting into the haze of summer.
The day wore on.
II.
His fingers scraped the kitchen table. I stole a furtive glance at their shadows. The evening entered, pale and lovely, like a ghostly sculpture, lightly dusted with twilight.
"Will you pay for it?"
"It can be fixed."
"No, it can't. Look at it." There were more shards t
Literature
softened
the sky whispers,
ribbons of crystalline quiet,
same shade as the angel dust
you shivered every time we were
alone.
in the darkness, we were
sorry birds searching for
open dawns. you, the
swan, me, the
raven,
black as night and
just as hopeful.
and there were poems
written in your skin, universes
blooming in your hands; your eyes
were a December sunrise saving me
from any sleep.
I’ve decided that
people are a composition of
all their greatest memories—and you,
you were always the most
beautiful piece of
me.
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Inspired by the dreary weather outside, which generates good poetry as quickly as it steals snow. Ah well. I guess I'll always have Paris...
Comments17
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If you haven't already discovered Robert Parker's (& Tony Hillerman's)
detective works, you are in for a treat. Forgive me if I repeat myself....
cheerios
S
detective works, you are in for a treat. Forgive me if I repeat myself....
cheerios
S