To be a writerMeans to have yet another excuse for bad behavior.It means that when I sit next to you and I am wrestling the
smoke from your cigarette like a bear I want to believe
we'll end up on the floor in gritty film rolls and beer cans
and start to choke.Because I remember how the whiskey made her eyes
shine and her her hair a swimming pool. When she took
me aside and said"You two are going to destroy each other," with a little
Parisian smile. Expecting one day to read great mythology
that we made with bread knives we stuck in each other's
eyes.So one day I felt like being more clever than
romantic and I caught you by the shoulderAnd ...
A Passion worth Regretting by Canescen, literature
Literature
A Passion worth Regretting
Dusk enshrouds paralyzed eyes
whose wretched haze chains down the light,
Holding it in bittersweet abeyance.
Could it be, that for all the moon's august gleams, it has suffocated?
Has it abandoned the foreboding sky?
How could it leave me to bow before waning silhouettes?
I cannot dream into an empty night.Can't you tell me
why I steal endlessly through fields of cold shoulders,
Dismissing the leaden echoes of their billowing nails?
Is it just to experience, if only for a moment,
that lonely flower's feigned beauty as it arrests my nerves once again?Hollow hands can only long for the taste of flesh,
And with...
And Then There Were Six by The-Virgin-Suicide, literature
Literature
And Then There Were Six
Give me a prettier word for
Starvation
For ruining my jeans
For pills and cola and ice creamGive me kisses on the cheek
Hy-phen-ate-d words
Bubbles and a safety netAnd the girl who whispered you and me But forgot what awesome meant.
We are spinning through the sky, tracing each constellation with our fingertips and feeling the very seams of the universe against our skin. We soar and glide through the tangled mess of the cosmos and intertwine our bodies with the ribbons of light drifting towards the darkest corners of the sky. We see all of time spread before us, each instance a square of yellowed film forgotten on the cutting room floor. Wars and battles swirl at our feet, mixing together in a multicoloured pool until it becomes impossible to distill the faces from the bloodied weapons littering the ground like plastic soldiers. The past, once so clearly defined ...
The Sad House of the Boar by thelittlewolf, literature
Literature
The Sad House of the Boar
There is a sad and twisted house on a quiet little street. This sad house is ruled by a great and dark boar, covered in a coarse, grizzled bristle of hair. This boar is huge and angry of temperament. His foul disposition keeps at bay a kindly and free-hearted mother bear, and a tiny dark bat who lives in the attic of the sad house. Though, even the great boar cows down to a twisted, misshapen creature who hides away its terrible countenance in the back room of the sad house.The kind mother bear goes about her happy tinkering in the yard behind the sad house, often late into the nights, dancing for the moon, and on to greet the gray light ...
My skeleton is a barbed wire framework glossed over with spun glass and glitter-glue stars.(Break it.)My skin is melted magma, sizzling upon contact and twisting in imperfections and pimples and moles.(Burn it.)My blood is poisoned snake's venom, thick black sludge that is retracted slowly by a razor's gnawing gore, withdrawn from a well deep within my soul.(Bleed it.)My organs are burbling instruments, bubbling a glutinous rhythm.(Oust it.)My hands are hole-filled gloves sewn on to stubby, chubby stumps of arms.(Cut it.)My ribcage is a birdcage, trapping the anxiously fluttering butterfly that is trapped within my heart and desire.(Lock i...
