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Literature Text
Some late post-meridiem;
There were several hours already tucked beneath his pillowcase.
You know how it is when a hard day pushes you
so deeply into your mattress springs.
You know how it is when your exhaustion is
so profound that
your body can’t spare you
even the energy to dream.
A pocket of acrid aroma
crept up the stairs, lightly wrapping it’s smoky digits around banisters
& passing by hung photographs whose subjects were as still as the man who slept.
One wonders if that night,
the bitter & black billow paused at the doorway
& seeing that spent figure sprawled sloppily about the four-poster bed
it thought to itself, “should I even bother?”
Though, the smoke drifted into the room, danced all about his form & up into his nostrils.
It lingered on his eyelashes begging for response but met only the occasional twitch.
It floated into his ears even, filling all available space as gases do...
maybe trying to warn him within the walls of dreams or nightmares,
but, as this story goes
there were neither to speak of.
His home was heating up.
Burning wood hissed & popped all around him.
Ember danced on usually bland white walls in a fantastic display for no one,
for still the man slept, the pace of his breath increasing now
as a plume of carbon monoxide engulfed him
& began to spill asphyxiation into his lungs.
He was so worn & weary that the caustic cloud could take
him with virtually no resistance.
And so, it did.
As his body and home reduced to smolder
and the smolder reduced to ash
his sleep went
utterly uninterrupted.
W.M.S.
There were several hours already tucked beneath his pillowcase.
You know how it is when a hard day pushes you
so deeply into your mattress springs.
You know how it is when your exhaustion is
so profound that
your body can’t spare you
even the energy to dream.
A pocket of acrid aroma
crept up the stairs, lightly wrapping it’s smoky digits around banisters
& passing by hung photographs whose subjects were as still as the man who slept.
One wonders if that night,
the bitter & black billow paused at the doorway
& seeing that spent figure sprawled sloppily about the four-poster bed
it thought to itself, “should I even bother?”
Though, the smoke drifted into the room, danced all about his form & up into his nostrils.
It lingered on his eyelashes begging for response but met only the occasional twitch.
It floated into his ears even, filling all available space as gases do...
maybe trying to warn him within the walls of dreams or nightmares,
but, as this story goes
there were neither to speak of.
His home was heating up.
Burning wood hissed & popped all around him.
Ember danced on usually bland white walls in a fantastic display for no one,
for still the man slept, the pace of his breath increasing now
as a plume of carbon monoxide engulfed him
& began to spill asphyxiation into his lungs.
He was so worn & weary that the caustic cloud could take
him with virtually no resistance.
And so, it did.
As his body and home reduced to smolder
and the smolder reduced to ash
his sleep went
utterly uninterrupted.
W.M.S.
Literature
Fly
Fly
There is a blessed feeling,
That really sends me reeling,
Sends me high up in the sky...
I am never coming down,
I only want to drown,
Deeper in this delight...
You make me fly...!
An unbelievable sensation,
Sends my pulse to racin,
And I don't even have to try...
You are much more than a distraction,
You always get a reaction,
You bring light unto my life...
You make me fly...!
A once naughty temptation,
Brings me such elation,
That sometimes I want to cry...
Every new day I am greeting,
A love that is not fleeting,
You get me high...
You make me fly...!
jlp January 3, 2009
Literature
I'll fly you home.
I cradle the globe in my fist, risking
the ocean spray and moonlit tides just to feel
your bewildered irises lock with mine and your breath
rush through my tilted axis.
The smudges from your half unread
atlas cut my scars in half, and Ill swear
to your unexplored oceans that I can find the needle
in your haystack and bring you back home.
I saw civilizations rise and fall through
my peephole in the asteroid belt of my backroom window,
and never before have I been so engrossed
in the simplicity of daisy chains and hopscotch
markings and carved initials in the spines of trees.
I always meant every syllable and when y
Literature
Anagrams in the air
Thieved
by mouth-envelope;
my phonics
caged
in alphabet-zoos,
my heart-hospital
swirling with apiaries,
as I wait outside
a name.
If I could
eventually
say anything at all,
Id tell you
how you loom
secret heuristics
inside those delta-pyramids
that snack on your pupils.
Id tell you
Id bleed out
the worlds cathedrals
in weight,
to say anything
that sparked a star
in the quiet knock
of your night.
Id scratch
the larks
from their wallpapers,
until my nails, none,
lift their wings
and give them flight.
This thirsting
pulse
knows you
inside the highest
of blooms
and
we can never
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