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Literature Text
a brilliant voice cries:
come all
to this most fluorescent feast,
this vulture's gathering—
a chance to see
the cold, damp lump of
cold, damp skin.
the air swells like a greedy stomach
of fascinated silence—
he continues,
crying: these are the
hands. shaken, worn down;
this is the mouth, edges serrated
by screaming,
possessing the ragged beauty of forests.
the heart, though auctioned away
to a cruel and unrepentant collector, leaves
quite a daring hole.
what a chance to see that dark cavity
unfold itself like poetry.
he cries, one last time:
if that doesn't satisfy, behold
the mind.
valuable asset, though
defective at best.
see the way it dents and darkens
with memories long gone?
it's a remarkable curse.
yes, the audience echoes—
the fascinated silence peels into a
forlorn worry—
a remarkable specimen she is indeed.
Literature
Rosebush
If I were to tell you,
"Life is not a bed of roses."
Would you still continue
To pull the weeds from beneath the rows?
If I said,
"There are some wounds that cannot heal."
Would you still reach between the brambles
And allow the thorns to pierce your skin?
Were I to mention,
"Even the brightest of flowers
Will eventually succumb to time."
Would you still cut the heads
In preparation for the new spring buds?
You simply smile and say;
"Yes.
For even the most vapid vine deserves to be cultivated.
Only then can it bloom
And truly enjoy its time in the sun."
Literature
the drum
yesterday:
I live inside a drum. I live beneath a beautiful stretched sheepskin, and on warm days the sun lays her head upon the face of the drum—softly humming.
I’ve always lived inside the drum, and so have my mother and father. My family has lived inside the drum for generations, along with all of my neighbour’s families. We know the winter songs to be jeering in tone but elegant in mood.
My mother speaks fondly of her life in the drum—most often of her childhood. When we used to go to the fields in the summer she would lie on the softly swaying grass, holding me close to her breast as she would recount storie
Literature
Untitled
your memory is heavy
I keep trying to unload the weight of you in words
but still I'm burdened
Suggested Collections
[regret, despair]
© 2015 - 2024 jungle-slang
Comments4
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I love your writing!