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Literature Text
And now I’m that little lame balloonman,
all knobbled feet and goat face.
I twist balloon animals from discarded condoms to make
a Durex poodle and a Trojan horse.
I offer them freely, hoping for nothing
more than a smile to steal, but no
one smiles anymore.
I steel at autumn, the winter-come-lately,
and lounge stiff against a light-and-ice pole.
I see him there, Ginsberg, shivering man of rags, and he
leers the old man at the chessboard, the one playing with no partner,
the one tasting the king and swallowing a pawn.
Who is waiting for whom, I wonder?
They both look hungry.
I startle as the Great Figure rolls a quiet, ruby line by.
The emergency is over or not yet begun.
In the humdrum silence of the crisp air,
I tell secrets and secrets.
To the expectant ducks I give away
the last of you, the little bits held between youandme
that I have no place for in myself.
I speak your secrets like an ancient religion,
something beautiful and forgotten. I say to the trees
how you told me you hadn’t always loved larking, and
then how you taught me how to dance. I laugh and
tell the wind your tiny quirks and endearing flaws,
and about that time we fought and never forgave.
I tell a rock your darkest, oldest fears, and it
doesn’t laugh or cry.
I tell a few newborn secrets of mine,
of lonely days and frigid nights.
Giving away those bits of me,
I give away the very last bits of you,
and stand,
leaving my balloon animals behind.
I notice the men have gone, and
the ducks, too. The chill deepens, and
I count the sunsets ‘till spring.
I shake my locks at that runaway sun,
and depart as air.
all knobbled feet and goat face.
I twist balloon animals from discarded condoms to make
a Durex poodle and a Trojan horse.
I offer them freely, hoping for nothing
more than a smile to steal, but no
one smiles anymore.
I steel at autumn, the winter-come-lately,
and lounge stiff against a light-and-ice pole.
I see him there, Ginsberg, shivering man of rags, and he
leers the old man at the chessboard, the one playing with no partner,
the one tasting the king and swallowing a pawn.
Who is waiting for whom, I wonder?
They both look hungry.
I startle as the Great Figure rolls a quiet, ruby line by.
The emergency is over or not yet begun.
In the humdrum silence of the crisp air,
I tell secrets and secrets.
To the expectant ducks I give away
the last of you, the little bits held between youandme
that I have no place for in myself.
I speak your secrets like an ancient religion,
something beautiful and forgotten. I say to the trees
how you told me you hadn’t always loved larking, and
then how you taught me how to dance. I laugh and
tell the wind your tiny quirks and endearing flaws,
and about that time we fought and never forgave.
I tell a rock your darkest, oldest fears, and it
doesn’t laugh or cry.
I tell a few newborn secrets of mine,
of lonely days and frigid nights.
Giving away those bits of me,
I give away the very last bits of you,
and stand,
leaving my balloon animals behind.
I notice the men have gone, and
the ducks, too. The chill deepens, and
I count the sunsets ‘till spring.
I shake my locks at that runaway sun,
and depart as air.
Literature
He Idles At the Break of Day
He idles at the break of
day with a hum-song
from his engine, winds careening
along windows cracked, and the
copious chirps of an April bird.
"Is it music?" He wonders - that
ordered-chaos-well-from-the-soul - an
ostinato engine to the stringing
of windly breezes - and the singing,
oh how the singer sings her sun-dust
melody, like angels from tree-lined
shadows on a horizon of blazing light.
Literature
Morning - for Carl Sandburg
The morning erupts
on little cat feet
A flick of the tail
a breath exhaled
too fast at the end of a leap
and then
A paw,
placed on lid's soft fan of lash
breath whirring, throaty, warm
nose
to
nose
eyes still closed
Then open
Thwack
A stunning velvet attack
innocent lids unwarned
warm sheets no safe haven
The morning erupts
on little cat feet.
Literature
how lilies weep
obstacles
are a kind of faith,
bleeding through
intention
as if through some
amorphous skin,
red silk,
a bruised clock
covered in
veins and cloaked
with skin,
timed to burst.
i am nothing
if i am not a dream
of yours, waking
from the geometric light
of my window
into a shimmering cup,
poured full of your words
my hips dripping
their tiny mechanisms,
whirring impatiently
my mouth
made raw,
swirling in incense,
growing new teeth,
finding ulcers
to bleed through.
i drip and cough
and sleep and bleed
and hope
that i am strong enough
for someone like you.
i am taped
and bandaged
and covered up
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Before you comment, fave, or leave, please take a moment to read the following works:
in Just-- by e e cummings
A Supermarket in California by Allen Ginsberg
The Great Figure by William Carlos Williams
Not Waving But Drowning by Stevie Smith
Song of Myself by Walt Whitman
Anyway, I don't know. Tell me what you think.
© 2008 - 2024 vix0r
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Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by DLD (Daily Literature Deviations) in a news article that can be found here [link]
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Keep writing and keep creating.
Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by ing the News Article.
Keep writing and keep creating.