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Literature
[?]
i write this letter for the small round
creatures that can never understand:
forgive me, for plucking apart your webs
with clumsy fingers, for the spindly legs
no longer grafted on your body, for the sink tubes
slick with grease and matted with my hair,
all the keratinous footholds
you missed in your ignoble descent,
forgive me
and the wheel that cut your flesh in two,
the pieces of shell under the grass,
the boot on your tiny, pitiful heart —
I did not know you then.
I was a child then and all I could see were spindles
and wings to hold onto, I envied you
for your flight, your silk, your smooth ease,
you crossed my path and I envied you,
a grooved exoskeleton full of air
pumping itself among the stars
that you make with your own body.
I am made of heavy meat,
I cannot soar, I spin nothing,
no lights glow within me, I
am no small round creature — not anymore —
and I did not know you then.
all my love.
:iconEbrbfureh:Ebrbfureh
:iconebrbfureh:Ebrbfureh 1 0
Literature
l'eau qui dort
deep in the caves, the rivers sleep and dream of sunlight
in their limestone cages, the memory of sunrise
on their liquid minds
their limpid bodies an arrow
aiming to quench a thirst
deeper than themselves
in that dark
they look for fire
or any warm place
boiling as though in a fever
they rise
never have they asked for anything,
sought anything,
except for the stars
they still remember
they break against rock
and now they are light as air
as nothing
and still they have no sun
:iconEbrbfureh:Ebrbfureh
:iconebrbfureh:Ebrbfureh 1 0
Literature
[do not speak to me of ice]
What a mockery it is, imprisonment
in an imitation of yourself 
that can't die, your transparent flesh
melding with your siblings'
harried slippery bodies,
becoming plasma in another body's blood 
even as the clear walls hold 
strong—did you know 
the hot breath that shaped those walls
would undo you?
but all your brethren ask 
for you to look like them.
You're a near-copy of your own cage, 
the glass fingers grasping 
your smooth sides: will it slip through,
the bone-thin breath trapped in your ribs, 
water to water and air to air? 
Speak, you cold child, the one with a frozen 
geyser for a spine, beneath a smile
numb as enamel. You look like nothing, 
but still seem strange, 
a solid in a solid, like water in chains. 
Better give yourself to them 
than calcify.
and all your brethren ask 
is for you to look like them.
:iconEbrbfureh:Ebrbfureh
:iconebrbfureh:Ebrbfureh 1 0
Literature
c
I stood at the cold cliff and looked
into the even colder sea. The sea takes its name
because ocean spreads itself too vast,
too wide, and far too deep,
and the foam that frosts the tips of the waves
curve, see. See how it laps and strokes at the mouth
of each stone cave. The stone wears away
and bears the cut of the water with a smile.
(They cut each other with a smile.) Listen to that voice.
So easily does it curve into a circle,
fork itself like lightning, become ocean.
I breathe in the saltladen sky and wonder
if I could drown in fog
alone, or if only the sea would.
The sky, dark
as a purpling bruise
that refuses to heal.
One red eye
bleeds—
a sea
is just an ocean
without a heart.
Will you swallow us, it asks of me,
will you let us consume you?
I breathe in the fog
and contemplate the answer. Embrace me.
I want to see you as ocean.
Yes, it sighs, yes, we will show you. 
Come into our waves. Walk into us
And do not blame
:iconEbrbfureh:Ebrbfureh
:iconebrbfureh:Ebrbfureh 0 0
Literature
il n'y a pire eau
Blood is a redder word than bleed, even with the
high scream of each cradled e
like escaping steam; see
round hemoglobin os, like oxygen on hold
an axe coming down — dull thud included —
to sever breath from bone, limb from end.
Red is a colour that says, Divide me by myself
and leave nothing. I need absolution.
Burn me. I will not break.
:iconEbrbfureh:Ebrbfureh
:iconebrbfureh:Ebrbfureh 0 0
Literature
Categorizing is not my strong suit either
:iconEbrbfureh:Ebrbfureh
:iconebrbfureh:Ebrbfureh 1 0

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i write this letter for the small round
creatures that can never understand:
forgive me, for plucking apart your webs
with clumsy fingers, for the spindly legs
no longer grafted on your body, for the sink tubes
slick with grease and matted with my hair,
all the keratinous footholds
you missed in your ignoble descent,
forgive me
and the wheel that cut your flesh in two,
the pieces of shell under the grass,
the boot on your tiny, pitiful heart —
I did not know you then.

I was a child then and all I could see were spindles
and wings to hold onto, I envied you
for your flight, your silk, your smooth ease,
you crossed my path and I envied you,
a grooved exoskeleton full of air
pumping itself among the stars
that you make with your own body.
I am made of heavy meat,
I cannot soar, I spin nothing,
no lights glow within me, I
am no small round creature — not anymore —
and I did not know you then.

all my love.
[?]
The title — "maybe if I write about you you won't bug me anymore" — is ostensibly too long for this website. I seem to have trouble with those. 
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deep in the caves, the rivers sleep and dream of sunlight
in their limestone cages, the memory of sunrise
on their liquid minds

their limpid bodies an arrow
aiming to quench a thirst
deeper than themselves

in that dark
they look for fire

or any warm place

boiling as though in a fever
they rise

never have they asked for anything,
sought anything,
except for the stars
they still remember

they break against rock
and now they are light as air
as nothing

and still they have no sun
l'eau qui dort
Right, so there's a bit of water underground, an aquifer or whatever, and so is likely a metaphor for futility. make of it what you will
Loading...
What a mockery it is, imprisonment
in an imitation of yourself 
that can't die, your transparent flesh
melding with your siblings'

harried slippery bodies,
becoming plasma in another body's blood 
even as the clear walls hold 
strong—did you know 
the hot breath that shaped those walls
would undo you?

but all your brethren ask 
for you to look like them.

You're a near-copy of your own cage, 
the glass fingers grasping 
your smooth sides: will it slip through,
the bone-thin breath trapped in your ribs, 
water to water and air to air? 

Speak, you cold child, the one with a frozen 
geyser for a spine, beneath a smile
numb as enamel. You look like nothing, 
but still seem strange, 
a solid in a solid, like water in chains. 
Better give yourself to them 
than calcify.

and all your brethren ask 
is for you to look like them.
[do not speak to me of ice]
Subtitle:  夏虫语冰 
Hypocrisy at its finest, eh? 
Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated
Loading...
I stood at the cold cliff and looked
into the even colder sea. The sea takes its name
because ocean spreads itself too vast,
too wide, and far too deep,
and the foam that frosts the tips of the waves
curve, see. See how it laps and strokes at the mouth
of each stone cave. The stone wears away
and bears the cut of the water with a smile.
(They cut each other with a smile.) Listen to that voice.
So easily does it curve into a circle,
fork itself like lightning, become ocean.
I breathe in the saltladen sky and wonder
if I could drown in fog
alone, or if only the sea would.

The sky, dark
as a purpling bruise
that refuses to heal.
One red eye
bleeds—

a sea
is just an ocean
without a heart.

Will you swallow us, it asks of me,
will you let us consume you?
I breathe in the fog
and contemplate the answer. Embrace me.
I want to see you as ocean.
Yes, it sighs, yes, we will show you. 
Come into our waves. Walk into us
And do not blame your lungs for failing you.
Could you in your trembling hands carry
air like smoke, and so heavy?
Blood is a redder word than bleed, even with the
high scream of each cradled e
like escaping steam; see
round hemoglobin os, like oxygen on hold
an axe coming down — dull thud included —
to sever breath from bone, limb from end.
Red is a colour that says, Divide me by myself
and leave nothing. I need absolution.
Burn me. I will not break.
il n'y a pire eau
First in a series of water- or liquid-related poems I call "Conversations I have with water" (与水谈话). Critiques more than welcome, though never obligated.
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Ebrbfureh
Not telling you
Canada
Hey. Welcome.
Feel free to tell me what I should do better, or not. Hope you enjoy your stay and your day.
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