with the windows way down by FallingAsleepTonight, literature
Literature
with the windows way down
afternoon thoughts of copper
and sunshine. I want to dance the ghost
and love a girl with red hair and freckles
however you love a girl
with red hair and freckles.
slow dance, slow dance,
moonlight clichés we are all hoping, secretly,
happen outside the movies.
now we can be better
than actors.
and these things are the things I sing to myself
with the windows way down, driving
over the burnside bridge-
that "made in oregon" sign standing there,
effortlessly iconic. the way I know now
love is from the outside,
even without that red light
only on in the winter.
I am waiting for snow,
I am waiting for white flakes in her
red hair. simple th
silver walking by FallingAsleepTonight, literature
Literature
silver walking
blink your eyes
quickly, repeatedly,
rub the light from the surface of them.
replace with silver stars
as seen by the dead men.
mapped by them
spread into charts,
pinned against the walls.
what you love
has been loved before.
these caves have markings
struck in stone
that speak of victories
and conquest.
silver walking
towards a light
that will never be yours.
go out there
in the early hours.
disturb the stars
in that waiting room sky.
I hope something
other than humanity
can remember these moments
once we are gone;
our white dwarf
existence
and our tiny writhings
that we bother to count
in seconds.
I lay with you on a cloud,
Our friends shooting fireworks into the sky
That pierce through both of our hearts
And ignite our eyes, our lips, our skin.
I find your warmth in the darkness of sleep,
The explosions we create in ecstasy
Leaving behind fire and light that warms our cotton ground,
And keeps the sparks in our eyes.
Wasting away hours,
We watch the sun and moon dance.
They never tire of the same motions,
Interconnected through souls, like intertwined hands.
Uncertainty made certain by our adventures in the sky,
I finally understand what beauty is.
Sunlight peaks through open windows,
Caressing love into a soft wake.
a litany of things better left unknown by MisfitableGrae, literature
Literature
a litany of things better left unknown
I wonder if we had a time machine, how many people
would go back in time and how many people would go forward,
and if that would say anything about us or not. I know
some people are afraid of the butterfly effect: when I was
eight, a girl named Alexis stopped me from a catching
a monarch, told me I wouldn’t like the way I looked
if I had its colors dusting my skin.
I wonder if God ever stands in front of a mirror
and realizes how amazing it is that He can see Himself
when millions of people would kill to be able to.
I wonder if vampires ever get lonely when
they’re sleeping and if they ever get
self-conscious because they can
Market stall yielded, fifty cents
Book well read, pages stained
Corner down, forgotten interest
Someone was held spellbound.
Print on page, highlighted yellow
Looks with detachment at me
I underline significant words
Eyes slowly opened see.
Readers in future might puzzle
At marks and observations
Writings on the wall-so to speak
They will add own notations.`
2014 Delice1941
5th August2014
the mechanics were all wrong by EdenWanderlusts, literature
Literature
the mechanics were all wrong
I was lost out in the desert balancing between mistaking moths for
pixies and the need to be an adult and carry on. i could not carry on
so whispered to the pixies instead. i quietly tried to untangle myself from your ghost,
tried to tiptoe my way out of the desert that was you but did not succeed for very long.
you followed me like a storm of wasps having picked up the sweet scent of not understanding, mistook my north for my west and ended up somewhere inbetween in the dark with my heart pretending to be a compass. the mechanics were all wrong and sand was streaming out of the thin sides like a dry river stream. For a little while y
Welcome, my dear, to Insomnia Cafe.
Straight-jackets and violins can be found to your left-
Yes, yes, we're coming to that. Now where was I? Ah yes-
Coffee is served over here, laced with arsenic, just how you like it.
Yes, I know how you take your coffee, my dear. Do come along.
To your right is our jukebox lullabies and those voices.
The voices? Oh, they're the whispers you hear at night,
the pulse and scratch.
It's only your imagination, though, yes?
Come, come, my dear; there is much to see.
Ah, you're shivering. Here, over here.
The fire is liable to spreading but the hearth is rather cozy.
Oh, no, don't fret, my dear;
It simply follows
between my vertebrae, you are (cemeterial) by counting-vertebrae, literature
Literature
between my vertebrae, you are (cemeterial)
oh, these writers never speak; they
claw words out of bird carcasses,
poets pecking viscera like necropolitans.
they count their ribs to remind you
of a corpse or of a matchstick. dry bones
between fissured wrists & funeral pyres,
these have been dying days &
they're all mortuaries.