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Literature Text
you brushed against
my life, the way
dirt enters a wound
no one asks
for pain, and yet
it takes the responsibility
of answering
all our questions.
no airplane
could have matched our
momentum, running
in opposite directions
as if the only
accidents occured
in collision
across the room, you
caught my eye and
I reached instinctively
for a scar
leftover from
the fall. how fortunate
it is that in two weeks
we will grow
into the throes of summer.
my life, the way
dirt enters a wound
no one asks
for pain, and yet
it takes the responsibility
of answering
all our questions.
no airplane
could have matched our
momentum, running
in opposite directions
as if the only
accidents occured
in collision
across the room, you
caught my eye and
I reached instinctively
for a scar
leftover from
the fall. how fortunate
it is that in two weeks
we will grow
into the throes of summer.
Literature
Loss
It is more than death: a loved one
vanishes into a gathering of ashes,
and still they are not immortalized
by that lump in the throat, that sense
of wrong, that homesickness, that love-
sickness--the unnameable, named. Baudelaire,
I am an unhealthy man now--
this is past forgetting, past frailty.
Age has whitened the crass lines
of my hair; apathy has sewn through
my thinning lips, has stilled each finger
from touching keys, or ink to paper.
Although I've shown the eye of each grape,
how they watch from a neighbor's unkept yard--
I care no longer about the sweetness
of their juice, or the miracle of finding
sense and hope in l
Literature
Birdcage
Nothing ever happens the way you read in the history books. In war there are never two armies, there is only a field of men. Never a number of dead; but individual lives snuffed out. That is what the subject of history is, years shelved and decimalized. Birth and death, graphed to the simplicity of lines. Great wars a footnote to the next great war. The achievements of men and women plotted out against the bookmark of day, month and year.
And somewhere amongst this, my mother breathed. Somewhere danced in now long-closed nightclubs, laughed at jokes told by a younger version of my Father. And then the unpin-able moment she fell in love with
Literature
Funeral
Funeral
A funeral was no place to have an epiphany. Epiphanies galvanise people into action and the only action you could get away with in a church pew was discreet fidgeting. Even that was considered unseemly when a heart-felt eulogy was being delivered by the deceased's mother, as Mary was finding out to her discomfort. The priest was beginning to shoot her dirty looks.
But really, as epiphanies went, it was a brilliant one. She couldn't believe she had taken this long to realise it. She was fat. Plain and simple. Mary was much too fat. It explained everything. Her husband had left her for a skinny bitch because she was fat, the universit
Suggested Collections
this is an old story.
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NaPo #27
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NaPo #27
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Comments4
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Oh my god that was just so beautiful.