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Literature Text
there is too much of me.
I do not fit neatly
into a box,
do not fold into a mattress-
form:
no pair of hands
could encircle me.
I will not fit into your
palm, dear,
that precious white thing:
I would loll
off of its edges,
I would fall.
I do not fit neatly
into a box,
do not fold into a mattress-
form:
no pair of hands
could encircle me.
I will not fit into your
palm, dear,
that precious white thing:
I would loll
off of its edges,
I would fall.
Literature
im not psychic, we arent fated
two and a half hours from now:
the last day i may ever see you
(if im lucky) but im not lucky so
why dont i just send my adieux
in advance: from mine to yours
two and a half years from now:
the last day, as told by Mayans
something-something years ago
(if im gullible) i might run, panic,
wish i loved more people. but i
believe in apocalypses as much
as you believe in me: not at all.
two and a half eternities from now:
the last time i will tell you how i will
either be dead or yours. however if
you survive 2012 then i doubt i will.
Literature
Daydream
I was blowing chalk dust,
like magic,
into words.
I adore you,
my
love.
I was shaping
home made
clouds.
I was lying in a forest
of tiny blades,
finding pictures of
your life.
Like voodoo,
Literature
fever.
january;
hips are grinding together like the
fence posts at dovers' bay. the
colours are static against my snow-
flavored skin. now, the time is late,
every hair smothered in ashes of
bones and melted salt-butter. i am
reminded of the beach, rolled over
and over in the dance of viscous
gems. fever spreads like the fictional
tale of the muse, hips are grinding
together like the revelations of
the fever, the fever in the bay.
every soul should know; there is
no fever in january.
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