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Literature Text
I forgot to put makeup on
this morning. Wrestled with the idea
of running back to my room for it,
instead stayed put and thought
about being naked. You can
be naked on your face. And on your
liver. Naked on last night's leftovers. People
who say they want to look better naked
are just trying to compensate for something.
It rains, and I like to think it is
the sky disrobing unrepetantly
onto my hair and cheeks. We
are its afterbirth, stagnant puddles
upon the ground. When I think of
the word 'stagnant' I picture a man who
will never whisper white nothings about
pomegranates into my neck, skin
dropping away from oxygen. But where
is my mask? You
are underneath so much these days
that there seems no need to cover myself
anymore.
this morning. Wrestled with the idea
of running back to my room for it,
instead stayed put and thought
about being naked. You can
be naked on your face. And on your
liver. Naked on last night's leftovers. People
who say they want to look better naked
are just trying to compensate for something.
It rains, and I like to think it is
the sky disrobing unrepetantly
onto my hair and cheeks. We
are its afterbirth, stagnant puddles
upon the ground. When I think of
the word 'stagnant' I picture a man who
will never whisper white nothings about
pomegranates into my neck, skin
dropping away from oxygen. But where
is my mask? You
are underneath so much these days
that there seems no need to cover myself
anymore.
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
I Guess We'll Live To See It
You should start looking
for a place we can make our last stand.
The dawn is breaking:
Every morning, a little less light,
and the end
is not as close as you think.
Love is not enough,
and wanting
is not enough.
The desert is coming.
The sea is coming.
God forbid
they find us holding our thirst
in both hands.
Instead,
instead;
No,
There is no
rescue.
You should start looking for a place
we can make our last
stand.
Take my frenzy for resignation, put your boots
on. I have a lantern. I have a little
knife. We have so much still
to survive. Open
your hands
and let the thirst out.
Build. We will stand
until t
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
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if the cat's coming out of the bag,
I don't even know where it's going
-
NaPo #7
I don't even know where it's going
-
NaPo #7
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Comments5
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giggles that is so true. The funny thing is in high school I would use it just so to hide me sun burn skin.