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Literature Text
The particular citrus of an orange
gone sour, like the winceworthy
lemon if it were sweeter.
Rather like a yoga class(, or god forbid, the hot kind
where you sweat out any kind of relaxation
and all kinds of lactic acid)
after your limbs have started shaking.
Hot laundry. Mundane things.
In meditation afterwards, you see your body
inhaling through the poses, keeping the arms up in Mountain,
then disc by disc curling back into Child,
whole bodies in rows moving in time
to the great breathing.
gone sour, like the winceworthy
lemon if it were sweeter.
Rather like a yoga class(, or god forbid, the hot kind
where you sweat out any kind of relaxation
and all kinds of lactic acid)
after your limbs have started shaking.
Hot laundry. Mundane things.
In meditation afterwards, you see your body
inhaling through the poses, keeping the arms up in Mountain,
then disc by disc curling back into Child,
whole bodies in rows moving in time
to the great breathing.
Literature
The Tide's Coming
The bugs whisper of your coming with their legs,
As the moon hides
Turning my edge of the world black
I cannot see, but through the pinholes of stars.
The trees rustle,
Shivering as you pass
Your heat removed.
I hear nothing
But nature rebelling against you.
But then all goes silent
The sea stalls,
The crickets feel your vibrations
Stopping them dead.
The trees hover in stasis,
Wishing they could uproot
Travel somewhere
You cant touch.
I welcome your chill
My bones make music enough
To fill the air,
My breathing
A sea roar, its own.
I am as aware of your presence
As
Literature
The Berliner
Sick of writing about the pianist,
she leaves for Berlin and makes her
home next to the absence of a wall
She contemplates the American Embassy
and changes her cigarette brand
She sets out walking
and considers percentages of lives,
eats alone, begins to consider meat as flesh,
removes paintings from their frames
and in their place hangs mirrors
Calling home small voiced
she asks after family and friends
politely, washing dishes as she does so,
the phone in the crook of her neck
She makes no friends, does not make love,
resents nothing and leaves no
holes in people's lives
Literature
an augury of tears
your love is the wind
on water. mine heaves deeper
than cruel riptide.
Suggested Collections
I know, the best stuff is in the last stanza. I'll expand it later.
11:45, hah. NaPo's off to a good start.
Some kind of start, anyway.
11:45, hah. NaPo's off to a good start.
Some kind of start, anyway.
© 2009 - 2024 ruffienne
Comments3
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actually, the whole thing is the best part... damn you're good.