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Literature Text
1.
When you reared your head I fell all across England,
past the grit haired grandmothers humming horticulture, ripples in the leather-skin weather of their faces,
past the ember specked fireplaces in the windows of an ash haven: London, and the commuters that hang like rain in its taxicab fumes; sewage pipes groan under the trains and hairspray.
I fall past this thinking
only of your grass blade hair
(how it all points up at me
in breathless photosynthesis),
thinking of you only.
2.
I would like the way I fall over you,
thick thighed lady with a bottle of booze
bubbling like your cheeks under your hair,
I would like your lips hanging like wine
tightly on the rims of mine, the rime of your breath
beating against me steady as a swig
of your drink(but in return
you would have just me
a snow-laden field on a foggy midday,
hoarfrost frigid on a teacup brink)
When you reared your head I fell all across England,
past the grit haired grandmothers humming horticulture, ripples in the leather-skin weather of their faces,
past the ember specked fireplaces in the windows of an ash haven: London, and the commuters that hang like rain in its taxicab fumes; sewage pipes groan under the trains and hairspray.
I fall past this thinking
only of your grass blade hair
(how it all points up at me
in breathless photosynthesis),
thinking of you only.
2.
I would like the way I fall over you,
thick thighed lady with a bottle of booze
bubbling like your cheeks under your hair,
I would like your lips hanging like wine
tightly on the rims of mine, the rime of your breath
beating against me steady as a swig
of your drink(but in return
you would have just me
a snow-laden field on a foggy midday,
hoarfrost frigid on a teacup brink)
Literature
bed
It's a stabbing sight
Letting in the morning with a crack of the shades
And you forget you could page-turn horizons
Waft through free territory
Where acres are just beds
Made of fresh land
Wrinkles in the river
Tell remembered times
About old languages that could make you cry
About soft beds that carve away canyons
A speaking voice lifted from the earth
Begging you to remember
Literature
epitaph
in the end
when i'm almost gone
and all i've left
is a red lamp
and a ragged song
to pave my way
into the thunderstorm
let every raindrop murmur
i loved you and lost
nothing but emptiness
and the company
of ghosts
Literature
Metastasis
98.00
Autumn is the season when everything dies.
The leaves shrivel up and your lungs go with them, tiny dejected organs drying out inside your sternum, crinkling under our footsteps. The doctors pronounce their diagnosis as the leaves fall, listing medical terms and percentages and something about medication options.
The disease is metastatic: it has bored its way out of your lungs and into your bones. Dissatisfied, it's going for your organs, your liver, your heart. The prognosis says Christmas is a pipe dream, likely as the sun ceasing to set.
You promise it anyway.
94.00
November comes and I am a fish, breathing through makeshift gi
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So many gorgeous images here.