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Literature Text
it was mid-may when the poet fell in love with me
she said my eyes were the sunrise
and that my hands felt like warm sand against her thighs
-
it was early october when my heart grew cold
she was convinced that it was either sadness or madness
and that it was not like my heart to stray
winter was coming and she was begging for spring
winter was coming and she was begging for spring
-
winter came
her history major mother told her i was general sherman
and her heart was the city of atlanta
if she wasn't careful i would burn it to the ground
she knew that history was doomed to repeat itself
she said my eyes were the sunrise
and that my hands felt like warm sand against her thighs
-
it was early october when my heart grew cold
she was convinced that it was either sadness or madness
and that it was not like my heart to stray
winter was coming and she was begging for spring
winter was coming and she was begging for spring
-
winter came
her history major mother told her i was general sherman
and her heart was the city of atlanta
if she wasn't careful i would burn it to the ground
she knew that history was doomed to repeat itself
Literature
For --
Bloom, bloom, bloom,
by the window, by the sun,
by the cooling shade of soft green cedar,
bloom, bloom, bloom.
When the chrysanthemums baldly raises
its heavy head to the dim-lit skies,
or cicadas shrill in train-speed rhythm
buzz and rest their wings on your shivering thighs
do not fear the world, the strangeness of Nature,
do not flip your pale small eyelids and waver.
Whenever burly oaks grow, wild-strong branches wide,
and benign barley bend and bow in a smile;
No - this too high; No - this too low,
Bloom, bloom, bloom.
Literature
The Guide
For a minute there I thought I
was at the wrong house. Then you tried
to fetch your toast with a fork, while
it was plugged in. Now the tile
floor is scuffed up and you're all fried.
Makes my job easy. Oh don't try
to plead or beg. This is your time
to follow me, no need to lie
for a minute
or an hour. Whichever kind
of bargain you have isn't my
problem. My job is to file
your soul for future trial.
Though, I guess, I'll let you cry
for a minute.
Literature
thalassophile
Silver light upon the sea
Sharp as scales, they slit the
Morning sun open -
Like a yolk it bleeds, ichor
Spilled thoughtlessly;
Smearing the fish belly white
Morning with a splatter of life.
Golden light upon the sea
Warm as palms, they stroke the
Turbulent blue -
Like a cat it purrs, star-chilled waves
Licking shores;
Tabby pelt flecked with shell white
And the gulls sing once more.
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