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Literature Text
As dusk falls, the rose bush still,
trilling voices on the air, a girl
applying rouge in the flat opposite,
he departs for the mall. He can roam
its corridors, pass in & out of its
shops, ride its lifts, sit in its cafés
or designated outdoor squares.
He can do all these things yet he
is not free. In the mall he is like
one returned to the land of the living
demanding due burial. No one sings.
trilling voices on the air, a girl
applying rouge in the flat opposite,
he departs for the mall. He can roam
its corridors, pass in & out of its
shops, ride its lifts, sit in its cafés
or designated outdoor squares.
He can do all these things yet he
is not free. In the mall he is like
one returned to the land of the living
demanding due burial. No one sings.
Literature
Our Issues
Your heart grew up in a black wooden box
and thought it fabulous,
its world of
right angles,
wood grain,
and eternal night.
It hated me when I bored the hole
that let the sun singe its eyes, cook its skin,
when rain collected the dirt on its skin
in a puddle beneath its feet and said:
"look how dirty you are, foul thing."
It hated and
hated and
still hates,
always crawling
under any
box it finds.
I kicked it
out of its hiding place.
It ran out howling, hating and being
ha
Literature
Reverie
I.
They say every woman is a piece of the moon,
but I want the sun.
Dear Apollo, explain to me why you gave up
clear mornings for the shadowy future.
And I'll make you wish you hadn't burned a time before.
Because he's still sleeping, turned towards the window,
the thick blinds cracking with sunlight in the early dawn.
The navy sheets his royal dress, the rays his glory crown.
I wake up next to a god on Sunday morning,
hands still dirty from the night before.
II.
But when I sleep, I dream of rhyming big words
Building them on top of each other, letting it touch the sky.
I rub up against them once in awhile to test their stren
Literature
neruda
i want to read your body
like neruda poem
written in braille,
my fingers searching
the pages of your skin,
gently brushing away
the hair that falls
like a silken bookmark
across your face.
i will work my way
down the page, hands
trembling with excitement,
anticipating which words
will follow.
fingers will linger
in some areas, reread,
so that on lonely nights
like this one I will
be able to recite
the subtle nuances of
your neck or the mystery
surrounding your navel.
I would try to interpret
the verse for others,
but there is no translation
for your lungs breathing
into the palm of my hand,
or your h
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Comments2
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Yet, not free, in the mall he is like
one returned to the land of the living
trying to work around
"He can do all of these things yet he/is not free.
one returned to the land of the living
trying to work around
"He can do all of these things yet he/is not free.