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Literature Text
100 little, orange orgasms...
or 1,000 red medium-sized sneezes?
O' the banalities of describing a sunset!
I'm sitting on my roof watching it.
Watching hell deflate in a busty, dark-indigo hug.
But I scratch that out because that's not quite right.
That orgasm/sneeze line needs to go too.
The angels burning the gardens of heaven applaud.
Or are they pouring orange soda on a defibrillator,
Frying the floating swarms of chartreuse Martian eyes,
Ashen lashes skittering onto the ghost
chewing the slow, slow grenade.
I'm thankful for words like "indescribable"
that make poetry easy.
It's not my lack of vocabulary or creativity.
This sunset's simply indescribable. Ha! Heh.
Oh God.
And whirling about in what language to paste where
Straining to MAKE POETRY HAPPEN!
I become senseless to the poetry happening to me.
A man on his roof, trying to describe a sunset
to a piece of paper, but he can't because it's impossible.
THAT'S the poem!
Should I put the pen down and wake to the poetry abounding
Relentlessly, each burning moment?
I cannot. Caught up in this flourish
of self-mechanizing chaos.
It is like describing a sunset...
or 1,000 red medium-sized sneezes?
O' the banalities of describing a sunset!
I'm sitting on my roof watching it.
Watching hell deflate in a busty, dark-indigo hug.
But I scratch that out because that's not quite right.
That orgasm/sneeze line needs to go too.
The angels burning the gardens of heaven applaud.
Or are they pouring orange soda on a defibrillator,
Frying the floating swarms of chartreuse Martian eyes,
Ashen lashes skittering onto the ghost
chewing the slow, slow grenade.
I'm thankful for words like "indescribable"
that make poetry easy.
It's not my lack of vocabulary or creativity.
This sunset's simply indescribable. Ha! Heh.
Oh God.
And whirling about in what language to paste where
Straining to MAKE POETRY HAPPEN!
I become senseless to the poetry happening to me.
A man on his roof, trying to describe a sunset
to a piece of paper, but he can't because it's impossible.
THAT'S the poem!
Should I put the pen down and wake to the poetry abounding
Relentlessly, each burning moment?
I cannot. Caught up in this flourish
of self-mechanizing chaos.
It is like describing a sunset...
Literature
Writing Fairytales
I told him, "I think I'll write a book."
He said, "Do it right, November. Write a best-seller and send me a copy with your autograph on the inside cover."
"I can do better than that," I promised, our fingers intertwined for the last time, "I'll write the best damn book you've ever read. It'll tell the story of lost love and lost innocence, of found friends and staying out too late on a cold night, and the story of endings without closure. It'll be about boys and girls and break-ups and hook-ups and how everything happens in the backseat of cars."
"They'll interview you on television because everyone wants to know who inspired the story
Literature
Sunrise, Sunset
I had a rose sun
in a pocket full of trees.
Glows like fingers stretched.
Literature
.
i avoid the eyes of people when i'm nervous
stare at spaces in between their eyelids
and let the conversation fade
or dissolve.
i don't know where to let my eyes rest
when you appear
in my head
around my bones
there's nowhere to look
except through you
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Comments35
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Yes.. it really does. Perfectly.