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Literature Text
Neon waves smash
Sunday night,
each magnetic drop—
a loop by earth standards—
shaping Leigh-Anne into the way
we know her today —like
when she says
she tried to write
for a year,
and it got her "absolutely
nowhere."
To cheer her up
I tell her the story
when I found my natural
limit in a can of beer—
the proverbial kid
who kept adding fuel
to the fire
until he couldn't get close
anymore.
In those weak moments
the waves return,
unbidden.
Threatening to recombine
wanton time-line curves
with high-pressured clothes
and super-heated winks;
But surely, I just
let the world outside fog
and summon my coward-self—
fiddle on the roof—
to stay hidden between
C major and F sharp minor
waiting for blame
to sneak back where it
belongs.
Sunday night,
each magnetic drop—
a loop by earth standards—
shaping Leigh-Anne into the way
we know her today —like
when she says
she tried to write
for a year,
and it got her "absolutely
nowhere."
To cheer her up
I tell her the story
when I found my natural
limit in a can of beer—
the proverbial kid
who kept adding fuel
to the fire
until he couldn't get close
anymore.
In those weak moments
the waves return,
unbidden.
Threatening to recombine
wanton time-line curves
with high-pressured clothes
and super-heated winks;
But surely, I just
let the world outside fog
and summon my coward-self—
fiddle on the roof—
to stay hidden between
C major and F sharp minor
waiting for blame
to sneak back where it
belongs.
Literature
The Witching Hours
Night climbs slowly up the spires
Tow’ring above still, silent streets.
At last have come the witching hours
When ghosts and goblins dare to meet!
The gargoyles and the ghouls all prance
In gutters where the children trod
At day before a yawning trance
Did send them to the Land of Nod
The witches trade potions for spells
To keep the creeping spiders out,
Much like farmers from green dells
Ask merchants, “How much for a dozen trout?”
The poltergeists ascend the towers
And sing like choirboys all the way,
Then fly to the bells and ring out the hours
Before night will be lost to day.
But alas, the dark must end sometime,
Th
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
Deafening
The silence is more often than not here,
There used to be noise music to my ears.
Now I'm alone when someone's always there,
By myself in my head left only to stare,
My heart once strong, now feeble and weak,
No power to move, and no smile to keep,
His heart once mine, now only his own,
No matter the amount of effort I've shown,
Where do I go when all is lost,
And what do I do when I can't afford the cost,
The life I lived I left behind,
Now it only exists within my mind,
So to my mind I must now go, For the sake of my withering soul,
To keep my spirit strong, and keep the memories whole,
Of a time when he loved me more than love itself,
Ther
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"I went home and packed. Slid my hand in an old Nintendo. Sometimes my actions are not digestible."
-Jeff Latosik (Tiny, Frantic, Stronger)
Thanks Eve for encouraging me to post and keep up with my pig-headed bitterness.
-Jeff Latosik (Tiny, Frantic, Stronger)
Thanks Eve for encouraging me to post and keep up with my pig-headed bitterness.
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Comments1
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I didn't mean to pressure you.Btw reading it again I realize you can rly turn words into magic, can't believe you came out with this lovely piece based on my ridiculously silly story.