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Literature Text
a crow,
perched on my shoulder,
on my shoulder,
and soon his crowing,
oh,
his gorgeous crowing
was understood
he turned his head from my ear
so he could point his beak towards a man
catching his gold-haired daughter in his arms,
and turned back to my ear,
to crow,
to speak:
that man, that man over there, over there, over there,
oh,
his is as filled with dissapointment
oh,
as the sea with water,
oh,
look how he drowns;
looking at the gold-haired girl,
a bundle of giggles,
a bundle of giggles,
oh,
in her father's arms,
oh,
I brushed the crow
off my shoulder,
off my shoulder,
and watched him go,
and crow, so beautiful,
and crow, so beautiful,
in someone else's ear,
oh,
I miss him so.
perched on my shoulder,
on my shoulder,
and soon his crowing,
oh,
his gorgeous crowing
was understood
he turned his head from my ear
so he could point his beak towards a man
catching his gold-haired daughter in his arms,
and turned back to my ear,
to crow,
to speak:
that man, that man over there, over there, over there,
oh,
his is as filled with dissapointment
oh,
as the sea with water,
oh,
look how he drowns;
looking at the gold-haired girl,
a bundle of giggles,
a bundle of giggles,
oh,
in her father's arms,
oh,
I brushed the crow
off my shoulder,
off my shoulder,
and watched him go,
and crow, so beautiful,
and crow, so beautiful,
in someone else's ear,
oh,
I miss him so.
Literature
exhibit.
Nanny thinks the carpet is too soft
to be my torturecage
and the sofa and endtables are poor
jailbars, but we
are feline and we're too tough to care
bigsister and littlesister are lioncubs today
baby lionesses, authentically,
we even lap milk from
ceramic bowls, bellies swollen from
the orders we give: 'emily, you're the
zookeeper.
Get us more milk.'
She hates serving us, she's only four
but she's getting strong and someday
she'll earn predator status.
(give thanks that we do not consume you, emily,
your fingers peek through the cagebars and
they are white and young and blood
is sweeter than breastmilk)
Roar. We are learni
Literature
fate
fatalism stalks me.
its chalky finger-bones
scrabble at my windows,
greedy to pry panes
and rend gaps—
mouth agape
to vent its algid breath.
conjured,
like a voodoo zombie
of the bayou,
by pious disciples
to the temple of matter.
they strain to evade
the burden of their choices,
worrying at the knots of destiny
and scattering dust
to fill in our footprints.
in a sly reversal of legerdemain,
they entice hands from rudders,
with their relentless mantra:
"free will is illusion!"
but illusion is smoke,
and stars still burn in my chest.
not nebulae, but hard points and brilliant.
I pass through them,
burning the fog
Literature
the living is easy
a tin man, white sheep rolled in dust
wears a grin, swisher sweets clinging
to his lip. he swirls seagrams 7 in a cracked
lowball, painting the side of my grandmother's
house with one eye closed & the other
laughing. he cannot speak the language
so i stare at him instead, his penny
loafers, his peeling skin, his snowy hair.
so i stare at his photograph on
the fireplace, wondering how anyone
who loved my great grandmother so well
could have died before i was born.
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A germ of an idea, needing development, refinement.
© 2011 - 2024 YvesMB
Comments19
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Wow, good one! I want to also add that here narrativeessays.org you can easily find some tips on how to write a narrative. Maybe this could be useful for your future projects