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Literature Text
it comes up thick
bile rising like a black parade of night time sickness
and i can't slip away
no matter how many times i try.
the frigid cold's a fever
pulsing white lightning
and you run for cover, but there's no shelter-
just bottomless rain and crippled dream tooth decay.
keep your distance, this one's a killer.
no name, eyes fold like a bad hand of cards
and you despise it.
yet you cling to it.
it's an ember tourniquet
cut your heart into pieces like tiny die and cast your lots,
place your bets.
it's useless, but hope's a dumb blonde.
my coffin isn't big enough to hold the two of us,
but then I realize it's just me
it's just me
it's just me
it's just me
bile rising like a black parade of night time sickness
and i can't slip away
no matter how many times i try.
the frigid cold's a fever
pulsing white lightning
and you run for cover, but there's no shelter-
just bottomless rain and crippled dream tooth decay.
keep your distance, this one's a killer.
no name, eyes fold like a bad hand of cards
and you despise it.
yet you cling to it.
it's an ember tourniquet
cut your heart into pieces like tiny die and cast your lots,
place your bets.
it's useless, but hope's a dumb blonde.
my coffin isn't big enough to hold the two of us,
but then I realize it's just me
it's just me
it's just me
it's just me
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Literature
Hometown
I dream of you, love of my life, most in the fall
When rain falls soft on red brick
And a crisp breeze flirts with the nape of my neck.
You have seen me leave far too soon
For far too long,
But you are still the breath that soothes
The months-long cramp in my lungs,
And my smile finds you.
In spite of that old grief in the harsh lights,
You still hold me safe and sure and real.
So I ride six hours north,
Back to you, back home
To find you once more.
Literature
In the Syllable
...then there is a way in diswaiting.
Dust some yellow sand covers,
here uncover bare bedding.
...suffusing red planes, blushed dunes,
under incidentally quilted blanket
wet as arid curves, as sounds.
...in a persistent pavement,
in a solemn unsuited promise,
some written words erase
some letters drip and soak
unto a perfuse miracle,
a dislocated split,
a letting go of...
Literature
Rombos
por Romy Lara
El aire gélido se coló en la habitación y alborotó los papeles minuciosamente acomodados en el escritorio. Tronándose los nudillos de la mano izquierda, Julio se incorporó y cerró la ventana de un golpe. Afuera el cielo se caía pedazo por pedazo. Reacomodó el desorden que se había hecho en su mesa de trabajo, colocando cada documento en su lugar: los de etiqueta amarilla en la carpeta amarilla, los marcados con verde en la papeleta verde y así consecutivamente con cuatro colores más.
Procedió a sacar un cuaderno de portadas negras de su
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depression.
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Comments8
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This has a great cadence, it feels like it sort of drips of the tip off my tongue when I read it. The ending is very pointed and though the mention of a coffin seemed a bit too close to cliche to me at first, the next line balanced it out completely. The repetition of the last three lines feels akin to coming to terms with the state of loneliness, a dull acceptance. In any case, this is really well-written, and I want you to know that nobody will ever be alone with those feelings and there's a kind of comfort in that, I suppose.