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Literature Text
mere moments ago
we laughed and talked
time calmly still
while we walked
then you were gone
out of the camera frame
this thing called life
can never be the same
so many minuses
carrying on traditions
nothing adding up
with so few additions
memories alone
so desperate to survive
but fade they will
just as those who are alive
love alone is left to conquer
our worst and best
life is but a journey
not a test
we laughed and talked
time calmly still
while we walked
then you were gone
out of the camera frame
this thing called life
can never be the same
so many minuses
carrying on traditions
nothing adding up
with so few additions
memories alone
so desperate to survive
but fade they will
just as those who are alive
love alone is left to conquer
our worst and best
life is but a journey
not a test
Literature
The point of it all
The city has streets that sink into the other side of the world.
Amidst their ruins, dead calluses are slowly petrified
in the ghosts of shoe soles and former tires.
Mediums claim the echoes of former pedestrians
weeping for their dislodged joints and lost groceries
still thunder in the depths
below the stapled smiles of the mayor
that shine on every wall above the lunar imitation.
Meandering, the life crashes with weary ears
and the map just jumps off a window
as the former arrow
rips off its point,
just like
this poem written
with a prehistoric leg
ten powerless knuckles
and a fruitless voice.
Literature
scattered
We leave pieces of ourselves in the corners
Of bookshelves, stuck between the pages
And in the hand painted wooden bowl
Collecting dust and spare change.
My fingers grazed a fragment
When I saw a photograph of you today
And my lungs caught on the memory
Of the first words you said to me
Lingering like a ghost breath
In the soft curve of my earlobe.
(“Hi, mind if I ask you
Some questions?”)
I hid inside the rain to drown out
The sound. The wet grass stuck to my toes
And the droplets rolled down
Over the shirt that my mom told me
Makes me look like I’ve got a chip on my shoulder.
(She thought her rebel was a princess
Bu
Literature
cladach eachtrach
Our shadows were children
the horizon a nightlight,
my skin Vodka white
in the womb
of the Atlantic,
bioluminescence
like sparks
conducting electricity
strip wire symphony,
naked limbs paired and
easily divided
in the remainder
wading
between constants;
prenatal combination,
the tide rolling in contractions,
and like ships to harbor
it bore us to shore.
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