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Literature Text
I’ve tried too hard to bridge this gap:
the space between my fingers,
vague, insipid emptiness,
the quiet, profound longing
of an unturned page.
you come to me with all the languor,
all the midnight captivation
of a cup of over-brewed tea,
a corset laced too tight,
a strict and unassuming wish for death.
somewhere in the world, someone
is unaware of your language, your
beauty, your music’s
arcane flutter: but that place is not here
and that person is not me.
here, I play memories
like a poorly tuned violin:
splendid, fearless melodies,
my violent, untamed love for you
lost in a Frescobaldian fugue.
the space between my fingers,
vague, insipid emptiness,
the quiet, profound longing
of an unturned page.
you come to me with all the languor,
all the midnight captivation
of a cup of over-brewed tea,
a corset laced too tight,
a strict and unassuming wish for death.
somewhere in the world, someone
is unaware of your language, your
beauty, your music’s
arcane flutter: but that place is not here
and that person is not me.
here, I play memories
like a poorly tuned violin:
splendid, fearless melodies,
my violent, untamed love for you
lost in a Frescobaldian fugue.
Literature
Confluence
According to the old religion, a scribe
must bathe in natural running water
before she draws what is dictated to her,
because writing's just like cleaning a mirror,
she says, it's like rearranging stains
left on wholesome rivers. For three nights,
I drew geometric shapes in the margins;
I had been instructed to take notes on
the underside of snow, and how it colonized
the lithosphere, musically and without hurt.
It felt like a call, but it wasn't a calling.
The paper was made in Himalayan foothills
by a woman who had cleansed knots from fibrous bark
and dipped her bleached hands into boiling water.
I mangled the page into a cottage, then
Literature
napowrimo
1. i've stopped fearing
my nightmares
and when i dream about
dying
i just see your face
and get your songs in my
head and stuck in my
throat
and i understand you now
i get it.
i get it
i get it.
now stop.
2. this is the darkest timeline.
this is everything that can go wrong
going wrong.
this is worse than you dying
this is worse than the burning
this is worse than you overstaying your welcome.
i cant even talk to him anymore
cause it just sounds like
he's sticking his fingers in his ears
and screaming how he's
notlisteningnotlisteningnotlistening.
which i should have done a long time ago.
3. i try to comprehend it sometimes
cause i kn
Literature
love is the
spatter of sill on bitter sun. blue slept sea blinking, smiling- lean in little forests of me. love blooms from lily buds, my half broken heart sinking, dying. but dear- had i loved you from the start.
blue eyes stare in empty green, cradle in wood white, loving me more by more, and all between. feelings- fills me- with sighs (to fill this empty space). oh but i am ocean, sea lover & you are forest, with folding green leaves. too blinded with love to ever see, we will never seem to be the same. not quite meant to be.
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Comments15
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Your words intertwine, as in the fugue, in that most classical of a theme layered upon itself. I would love to see the sub-melody in a smaller font.
All in all, even a poorly tuned violin hits a nerve and I am glad to have been struck.
On a different side, The space between the notes, not just the length of the gap, is full of the richness the lifts the notes.
Thank you for a very strong piece.