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Literature Text
the soul is numbered into a cohesive pattern. graphed for the mathematical masterminds and swallowed by the sea. it is drawn on earth-colored paper and taped to backs; for no one has the right to see their soul or steal it, just to roll it in mud or take it off when they feel overdressed. she's always overdressed for you but strays, too afraid to slip her hands down, over, off. she replies with tiny licking phrases and sheathes her eyes behind a clear mask. so useless. so so ashamed. to blame. we blame you.
talk is nothing but meal to fill the empty stomachs of air. we make it fat with nonsense and diseased desires. the others are just fifteen and free to dream, so free. free attaches to falling in a revolution of seconds and we are the most captive prisoners of all.
you have sweet dreams of tongues slipping down your throat, of medicine. i live to trail your insides but die to move beyond skin. barriers break our chemicals down to singular strands of written codes read only by nature. i am falsely yours and you thin my blood to water.
she is of sex and stairwells, angular walls of hip bones cutting sheets. you are only all the streets(sheets) we sleep under and ride for just one night, cold from metal and chewy rubber.
limbs darken with all the world.
i'm anything.
i will walk away.
ordering themselves to ripe instability, they comment on the luster of the girl. of you.
it inches so heavily down your thighs. rots in the corners of your mouth.
thoughts of you make you spit and gag.
serious and fuming,
acidic and onfire.
break us for nothing.
the road telescopes your heartbeat and all our paper souls
so malleable to the wind.
until, with one glistening crystalline gust,
pulls the tapered binding from our backs, and now
we live as we please.
always, always free.
talk is nothing but meal to fill the empty stomachs of air. we make it fat with nonsense and diseased desires. the others are just fifteen and free to dream, so free. free attaches to falling in a revolution of seconds and we are the most captive prisoners of all.
you have sweet dreams of tongues slipping down your throat, of medicine. i live to trail your insides but die to move beyond skin. barriers break our chemicals down to singular strands of written codes read only by nature. i am falsely yours and you thin my blood to water.
she is of sex and stairwells, angular walls of hip bones cutting sheets. you are only all the streets(sheets) we sleep under and ride for just one night, cold from metal and chewy rubber.
limbs darken with all the world.
i'm anything.
i will walk away.
ordering themselves to ripe instability, they comment on the luster of the girl. of you.
it inches so heavily down your thighs. rots in the corners of your mouth.
thoughts of you make you spit and gag.
serious and fuming,
acidic and onfire.
break us for nothing.
the road telescopes your heartbeat and all our paper souls
so malleable to the wind.
until, with one glistening crystalline gust,
pulls the tapered binding from our backs, and now
we live as we please.
always, always free.
Literature
?
i infiltrated three worlds, discarded them all, ate the signs, swallowed the planets surrounding.
i infiltrated my own mind, took out the things i liked and handed them out to children on the street, maybe they won't grow up.
i wrote you letters,
so many fucking letters,
without grammar, without spelling.
minus formalities,
minus proper format,
minus words,
minus writing,
minus me,
minus you.
i wrote you letters,
but really they were the piano notes
wronged that spat themselves out through my mouth.
i wrote worlds of letters,
infiltrated them
and decided i wouldn't say hello to anyone for a week or so.
Literature
The Listener
I straddle the peak of this roof.
Nightbright snow burns my unshoed feet
& they burn it back.
I shiver at the effort of this white-on-white battle to-the-death.
I quiver until the shingles scrape at my toes.
Stiffly these legs obey my orders & climb the bloody chimney.
The wind silences my pleas for mercy, yet I
unfold myself into a bird & then into a diver.
Cupping my hands I feverishly scratch at
peeling-paint clouds; these crumble and flake to the ground.
One heavensent gust collects under the swan feathers tied in my hair
& I ascend owl-eyed to the top of this night.
Crashing in through the scab I picked open, I land with a
Literature
Hungrier
The trees are turning by and by; we can no longer claim
Innocent-by-stander-ship.
We are participants in this aging process,
So stop bleaching your face, please.
Let it flush and flake out your window.
Tomorrow comes;
Holding hands becomes pretentious.
We are the next generation,
Hurling our arms out of car windows,
Unfurling virgin wings as we pass everything on the interstate.
--
You've got me eating my cheeks
[Inside out]
Filling cavities with blood because
I'm afraid I've forgotten how it feels to swallow.
--
You've got me rubbing your neck,
Just so when I curl to sleep in the backseat,
The residual smell
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listening to all the music i once loved mixed with new.
it's a journey
it's a journey
© 2011 - 2024 breathingglassstars
Comments27
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Amazing piece.