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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
March 18, 2015
on bradbury and table dancing by SkyScorcher is a beautiful poem about writing poetry.
Featured by SingingFlames
Literature Text
You are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllable of your own.
Stand on that mahogany table and swing
your hips and your pen as one, in the hopes
that this next poem will be the one they want.
Hold on to that bird, the one that sings
as you write. Hold too tightly and it will die
hold too lightly and it will fly. Carry it
in silk flower-printed pouches alongside your heart.
Breathe out gossamer threads and breathe in to weave.
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllable of your own.
Stand on that mahogany table and swing
your hips and your pen as one, in the hopes
that this next poem will be the one they want.
Hold on to that bird, the one that sings
as you write. Hold too tightly and it will die
hold too lightly and it will fly. Carry it
in silk flower-printed pouches alongside your heart.
Breathe out gossamer threads and breathe in to weave.
Literature
an infinitesimal sibilance
a wisp of a whisper
remains in possessions
long after we're gone
perhaps forever
things we create
or build
or just treasure
faint echoes of others
faint echoes of us
still here
llp - dA - oct2013
DD - jun03/2015
Literature
Letters to all the people I have kissed
i. Rob
I expected a knight in shining armour but you were
just a boy, just a boy.
ii. Jonny
you flirted and you teased and you kissed me
at midnight on new year’s eve and set the tone
for that whole god-forsaken year.
iii. Thomas
I could taste lies on your tongue and doubt in your fingers;
you said you were a taurus but you were gemini all over.
iv. Liam
friends shouldn’t kiss in the kitchen and
friends shouldn’t drink gin together and
friends shouldn’t cry, drunk on misery, and
friends shouldn’t break another friend’s heart and
I’m still sorry.
v. Pete
I expected just a boy but you were
a knight
Literature
macrocosmic
i.
i have a theory
that the size
of the universe
is measured in
negative numbers:
so small that it
looped over
became big again
thus we are all
collapsing
into ourselves
and each other
brilliant clusters
entwined with
the void
and our expanses
are startled
and crossed
when we touch
and the universe
isn't enough
every nebula or
space where
a star was re-
placed with
something
that wasn't nothing
or a nothing
becoming something
ii.
lately the hole
in my chest
is growing,
so i will observe
the vacuum
and wait for
infinity recurring
a bleak space imploding
chemicals corroding
stark ribs contracting
volatile, reacting
is this a refr
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Comments36
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sooo beautiful....
*cries*
*cries*