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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
March 17, 2011
The suggester writes: I love how safe-house song by ~grey-skies-industry sounds, tastes and smells.
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Suggested by zebrazebrazebra
Literature Text
you tie your words together
like loose thread, leaving
nothing left to trip over: no trail to follow.
your voice is shallow, heartbeat
steady as the cadence of the second-hand.
Away from the window,
admission flows forth like mercury.
yes, i held my breath. yes.
i can still smell the earth;
can still imagine the
vignetted
insouciance of spring
bursting into sepia life
like the birth of toads.
[some things are not so soon forgotten.]
i want you to know, sunflower
intimate with the baked
clay of the earth; i do not speak
with you and hear the parlance
of victims-
but of vines.
like loose thread, leaving
nothing left to trip over: no trail to follow.
your voice is shallow, heartbeat
steady as the cadence of the second-hand.
Away from the window,
admission flows forth like mercury.
yes, i held my breath. yes.
i can still smell the earth;
can still imagine the
vignetted
insouciance of spring
bursting into sepia life
like the birth of toads.
[some things are not so soon forgotten.]
i want you to know, sunflower
intimate with the baked
clay of the earth; i do not speak
with you and hear the parlance
of victims-
but of vines.
Literature
distinction
This is what I cannot understand.
There is an understanding that nothing is ever black and white. Good can be achieved through bad means, what's wrong can sometimes be right, and if you turn right for long enough, you eventually go left. Boys can be girls who fall in love with girls who sometimes think they are boys and the lines between everything end up irreversibly blurred.
Or so I've always thought.
But this is a line that cannot be blurred. This is the only remaining clear-cut line that separates black from white as perfectly as a color wheel. And that is the fact that everything is until it isn't. We are until we aren't. We breathe u
Literature
Love Isn't Chasing Rainbows
we wouldn't be dreamers, big schemers,
with go-nowhere jobs, nine-to-five.
no saving face, morning after regrets,
and what was his name agains.
we'd be euchre in the café
with men who had seen it all
before. salt plains, burma forests,
atoll islands and elephants at the zoo.
a car park wedding and a shotgun
house. make up chasers are
for the suburban dream –
who wants kids anyway?
I'd finish my degree, want
to work far, far away and
you'd agree to follow me
to the edge of the world,
but no further because
heights still won't be your
thing. in lust for all days;
we would have the world.
just say –
[yes]
Literature
Fugue
I found her in a tree, once.
She was sittin' stuck in the uppermost branches, serene and unsurprised as an angel on Christmas morning. Dappled light inked her pretty with the shadows of leaves, and her fingers faintly tapped the rhythm of a bright hymn on the burdened limb.
"Hello!" she called, miraculously. The sun made a silhouette of her waving arm, and I breathed for the first time in hours. Her face looked so sweet, smilin' and brilliant. Though she was only a few dozen feet up, she looked down at me as though she was ages and miles away.
"Susan, get down from there," I yelled. "Momma's worried," I added in a mutter, my gaze scurr
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for my cousin, who paints vivid pictures of memories far better than i can ever convey in words.
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