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Literature Text
From the tile of the kitchen floor
Crucifix headstones appear,
Backing this wretch into a corner
Biting my ankles and saying “Christ‘sa comin’!”
The refrigerator throws me a donut for safety’s sake,
Reeled in like a fish on a hook to certainty.
Now hiding in the cupboard with the chips and crackers,
Faith catching on and crucifixions knock on the door,
And from this darkened hole of the cupboard
A twisted mirror stood like the lord.
Crucifix headstones appear,
Backing this wretch into a corner
Biting my ankles and saying “Christ‘sa comin’!”
The refrigerator throws me a donut for safety’s sake,
Reeled in like a fish on a hook to certainty.
Now hiding in the cupboard with the chips and crackers,
Faith catching on and crucifixions knock on the door,
And from this darkened hole of the cupboard
A twisted mirror stood like the lord.
Literature
Our Issues
Your heart grew up in a black wooden box
and thought it fabulous,
its world of
right angles,
wood grain,
and eternal night.
It hated me when I bored the hole
that let the sun singe its eyes, cook its skin,
when rain collected the dirt on its skin
in a puddle beneath its feet and said:
"look how dirty you are, foul thing."
It hated and
hated and
still hates,
always crawling
under any
box it finds.
I kicked it
out of its hiding place.
It ran out howling, hating and being
ha
Literature
Reverie
I.
They say every woman is a piece of the moon,
but I want the sun.
Dear Apollo, explain to me why you gave up
clear mornings for the shadowy future.
And I'll make you wish you hadn't burned a time before.
Because he's still sleeping, turned towards the window,
the thick blinds cracking with sunlight in the early dawn.
The navy sheets his royal dress, the rays his glory crown.
I wake up next to a god on Sunday morning,
hands still dirty from the night before.
II.
But when I sleep, I dream of rhyming big words
Building them on top of each other, letting it touch the sky.
I rub up against them once in awhile to test their stren
Literature
Shiver
An earthquake rolls across her skin
as green curtains reserve a space
for construction -
he looks at splattered bed sheets
and cradles a small shiver.
He inhales, holds the breath. Hands
calloused by supermarket boxes grip
the railing. Cord of blood and sweat
fused into life is taken into other,
more precise palms.
A hand on his shoulder whirls
him around - birth is burdened
into his arms. Black curls smell sweet.
He feels her hand envelope his as he
leans forward to kiss the wailing temple
turned an angry shade of red. She's
whisked away - to wash and dry.
A statue of bones -
becomes a colossal collapse.
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© 2006 - 2024 bristoltheorange
Comments3
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fantastic write once again, I love the random-read-between-the-lines-it’s-not-so-random-just-coated-in-symbols of it.
Great choice of words also, the flow is wonderful and you seem to build and create moments perfectly, as if telling us what to feel at an exact point.
I love the last sentence the most. You have beautiful way with words, as unoriginal that sounds sorry it does.
Great choice of words also, the flow is wonderful and you seem to build and create moments perfectly, as if telling us what to feel at an exact point.
I love the last sentence the most. You have beautiful way with words, as unoriginal that sounds sorry it does.