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Literature Text
They were taking my words. I didn't know
such small, dull mechanics existed, heads
in cowls, stockinged feet, to slip in
with brooms and scalpels, to quietly
take away the words.
But it's guerrilla warfare
of the mediocre. You trade for happiness,
painlessness, a few choice syllables,
the ability to find a synonym. You only get
one word per thought.
I stopped that gestapo. I think.
It was a small, green thing that sent
its marchers in, just round enough, light
enough to seem helpful. Twice a day,
with water, or milk, crackers if you might get ill.
I stopped that pill. I'm waiting
for the pain to come flooding, but the happiness
remains beyond it and it's slowly
pulling my words out into the light
from the corners, and crannies, behind my
kidneys and bowels.
The small, dull men are trudging out.
At the corners of my eyes, I'm waiting
for a whiplash retort, a rude gesture,
a parting shot. They seem fairly calm,
though, as if their work is done.
The stockinged feet are flooding
my eyes. Their dull, grey backs retreating,
their horde, their swarm, preoccupies me. I'll almost
not let them reach the boundaries, not find
the edges, I might just keep them
at bay. Locked in. Guerrilla warriors
lost to the light of day.
such small, dull mechanics existed, heads
in cowls, stockinged feet, to slip in
with brooms and scalpels, to quietly
take away the words.
But it's guerrilla warfare
of the mediocre. You trade for happiness,
painlessness, a few choice syllables,
the ability to find a synonym. You only get
one word per thought.
I stopped that gestapo. I think.
It was a small, green thing that sent
its marchers in, just round enough, light
enough to seem helpful. Twice a day,
with water, or milk, crackers if you might get ill.
I stopped that pill. I'm waiting
for the pain to come flooding, but the happiness
remains beyond it and it's slowly
pulling my words out into the light
from the corners, and crannies, behind my
kidneys and bowels.
The small, dull men are trudging out.
At the corners of my eyes, I'm waiting
for a whiplash retort, a rude gesture,
a parting shot. They seem fairly calm,
though, as if their work is done.
The stockinged feet are flooding
my eyes. Their dull, grey backs retreating,
their horde, their swarm, preoccupies me. I'll almost
not let them reach the boundaries, not find
the edges, I might just keep them
at bay. Locked in. Guerrilla warriors
lost to the light of day.
Literature
on not knowing.
this road was ten miles long.
i traveled barefoot.
Literature
She was Beautiful
We have a daughter
called poetry
quiet with little fuss
looking up
& molding us as god.
Her small verbs
span indifferent cities,
aloof mountain ranges,
& the hours of
blank faced clocks
between sunrises.
She knows there are
worse things than dark
the black waters of the mind
are scarier.
We have created her
from love,
pressed & dried bouquets
& willow sticks
things only we
could make a life from.
One day we'll wake up
as different people
but the magic
of a shared procreation
will keep us tied
wanting to see each other's
newly patchworked faces.
We have a daughter
called poetry
Literature
The Monster of Orange Joyling
The children had never seen a monster before.
They'd heard the stories, of course. It was impossible to live in the City of Always Nightfall without having huge, cavernous dreams about the bone-pile it digs its roots into. It was a very big and bloody bone-pile, the one crunching underneath Singing City.
There was Glum Rradung, the bulge-eyed sewer-midget who slithered out of water-closets and gulped down children wandering about in the dark. There was Ingalin, the hungrymind which spontaneously formed out of clutter and garbage. There was the Very Practical Man, whose face was just an enormous nose and an even bigger grin, a demon who, the
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Comments5
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im vaguelying assuming (and please correct me if i'm wrong) that you have had something happen or possibly like me life happened.......anyways the question pressing at the back of my mind is....what is the little green pill?