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Literature Text
Grata/Sinse
high cascades from the ceiling,
rings puff from lips left ajar,
lingering flavors left in the air,
open for all to exhibit.
a museum for the bloodshot sclera,
watching grey fantasia
absorb the heavens,
as we exhale.
grazing pads of fingers
left on smoldering skin,
embracing the rolling fires
in succulent sin.
cheeks warm against each other,
eyes half-lidded, as its passed around,
the center of the galaxy,
elevated to the empty ocean
as Mercury and Venus,
blazed so high our eyes close,
no one can see us.
nothing can touch this,
Ls sparked and we all win.
and we all win.
and when the effects lose it,
we’ll start over again.
lips pressed sweetly against the edge,
like summer lovers.
let the sweltering heat come again,
and again,
and again.
rings puff from lips left ajar,
lingering flavors left in the air,
open for all to exhibit.
a museum for the bloodshot sclera,
watching grey fantasia
absorb the heavens,
as we exhale.
grazing pads of fingers
left on smoldering skin,
embracing the rolling fires
in succulent sin.
cheeks warm against each other,
eyes half-lidded, as its passed around,
the center of the galaxy,
elevated to the empty ocean
as Mercury and Venus,
blazed so high our eyes close,
no one can see us.
nothing can touch this,
Ls sparked and we all win.
and we all win.
and when the effects lose it,
we’ll start over again.
lips pressed sweetly against the edge,
like summer lovers.
let the sweltering heat come again,
and again,
and again.
Literature
boo !
the smell of ice
and vampire bites
thrill is in the air
fright night –
flashing sights ,
blurred lights &
candy so bright .
the scare of a clown
when no one's around ,
terror abounds
in cul-de-sacs of sound .
run run run
the shrieking rattle of death's bony fingers –
oh my God !
never mind , just a Grim Reaper .
& at 3 a.m. , when
the cycles begin again —
you know you've found
the thrill in the sound
of
"Happy Halloween!"
Literature
perennial
grief visits me today.
he watches as i write about you,
putting his hand on my arm
to stop the words
from shaking.
the river of veins is a blue glare
beneath his waxen skin, the valleys
under his eyes dark with our shared
misery.
i don’t ask where he’s been, or why
he’s suddenly back. i don’t want to know
who else he’d been with
when he was gone.
“you look better,” he says, pulling my hand
from the notebook. he
kisses it, holds it to his cheek.
the weaker parts of my spirit surge at his cold
familiarity.
i trace the arch of his lips to avoid
his eyes, ask him if he’d forgotten
about m
Literature
it's november.
it’s november. it’s time
for frost, and for old horses
to be put to rest.
i am
nothing but throat. you’ve
got more to say
than what comes to mind.
what messes we make,
laid outside in winter. we
share our dinner with the
skinny wolf and
spring bites at our heels.
what doesn’t kill me today
will teach you a softer story.
to live through winter
is a prize all on its own.
Suggested Collections
These are the friendly skies and I want you to ride them.
I wanted to play with imagery here and I hope that was clear.
I wanted to play with imagery here and I hope that was clear.
© 2014 - 2024 chromeantennae
Comments11
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Lots of great imagery here. So yes, the playing with imagery is clear. And awesome.