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Literature Text
tortured souls
sliding down
whiskey bottle necks.
my fair lady wasn't so fair
when her chin kissed the pavement
and the church burned down.
no presents to the children;
kris kringle is dead.
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Literature
Dromomania
Every day I turn the key in the lock
Hoping to find you
tucked into the white folds
of an envelope,
of the bath towel I left on the sofa this morning.
But you and I, we haven't the breadth for that sort of thing.
I wish I could send you something of spring,
some distended meteor green with hope.
I'm watching the last of the oak leaves cling
stubborn
and I think
spring may not be coming this year.
There is no birdsong, there is
the furious sleeping of toads in the mud.
I came on the bench
where I slept in the warmth of your memory
this time last year.
Now the thought seems less mine and maybe it was
me you'd dreamt beside,
m
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
Christmas presents
i.
asking dad
"what would mum like?"
he's no idea either
ii.
at the same store -
buying gifts for
my girl & mum
iii.
married 20 years,
her fake smile more real
than my silk roses
iv.
unwrapping your gift too eagerly,
I miss the tsutsumu!
v.
your present
a "new" novel;
I find a bookmark
vi.
next Christmas
seeing his gift, dad tells me
"I've read this"
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Comments6
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I don't know what to say... this is dark and subtle