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Daily Deviation
Literature Text
Bitter eyes and tears might taint a drink, but sitting in this bar alone with your stool pulled out next to me, and the Martini poured regardless of your presence still brings a smile to my face; despite the taste. I'm having a whiskey myself; dry. Yes, I know I don't drink, but every once in a while you need whiskey to solve an intricate problem, and mine is the distinct lack of alcohol in my life.
There are people everywhere and it amazes me how none of them are you, from the woman in the black dress coming down the stairs to the signing couple in the corner, laughing silently. They're not you at all, and that's what's amazing – in an ocean of coal you're a marble pebble, smooth to the touch and pleasant to the eye, and you don't leave me scarred.
Much.
I'll kick back the tumbler for now, refilling your drink when necessary, despite you never having it. The waitress will look at me with tired eyes and concerned words, but I'll insist I'm drinking with a friend, whilst that sad guitarist plays his song and I mumble with him; lyrics, half-heard.
Nights can be cold, but walking home by the gutter has its own sense of beauty. I can spy a rainbow in an oil-slick, and it usually keeps me happy. There's still some colour left in my life, despite my favourite one being just out of reach. I'm a purple man, myself – it's regal, fit for a prince[ess].
My ocean's a cruel maiden, keeping me from you, yet I find the distance adds to the flavour. I like company in the small hours of the morning (or my afternoons) and you've kept me sane. I think you've kept me sane. I suppose taking a second stool and drink at the bar doesn't help my conviction, much.
If people are multi-faceted, then I'm pretty sure you're a dodecahedron, complete with a lucid geometry I can't quite take my eyes off. I'd love to bisect your angles, measure your curves. Sadly, I can't find my plane of least resistance, so I'll trudge on through the snow and the oil slicks 'till I get home and collapse into bed.
The whiskey stops the dreams – that's the kindness of it. If I can never be fully happy, I can never fully miss the thing I've never had.
There are people everywhere and it amazes me how none of them are you, from the woman in the black dress coming down the stairs to the signing couple in the corner, laughing silently. They're not you at all, and that's what's amazing – in an ocean of coal you're a marble pebble, smooth to the touch and pleasant to the eye, and you don't leave me scarred.
Much.
I'll kick back the tumbler for now, refilling your drink when necessary, despite you never having it. The waitress will look at me with tired eyes and concerned words, but I'll insist I'm drinking with a friend, whilst that sad guitarist plays his song and I mumble with him; lyrics, half-heard.
Nights can be cold, but walking home by the gutter has its own sense of beauty. I can spy a rainbow in an oil-slick, and it usually keeps me happy. There's still some colour left in my life, despite my favourite one being just out of reach. I'm a purple man, myself – it's regal, fit for a prince[ess].
My ocean's a cruel maiden, keeping me from you, yet I find the distance adds to the flavour. I like company in the small hours of the morning (or my afternoons) and you've kept me sane. I think you've kept me sane. I suppose taking a second stool and drink at the bar doesn't help my conviction, much.
If people are multi-faceted, then I'm pretty sure you're a dodecahedron, complete with a lucid geometry I can't quite take my eyes off. I'd love to bisect your angles, measure your curves. Sadly, I can't find my plane of least resistance, so I'll trudge on through the snow and the oil slicks 'till I get home and collapse into bed.
The whiskey stops the dreams – that's the kindness of it. If I can never be fully happy, I can never fully miss the thing I've never had.
Literature
I Have No Names for all My Teacup Babes
I feel always like I am starting over.
As a magpie I gather trinkets under my pillow,
bay leaves and bags of herbs to bring the next lover to me,
to call the next dream-face forwarda picture
painted in the tea leaves.
But truth be told the start-again
is never clean, is never gentle,
and the sweat of all that labour
is a fire on my skin, telling me
I will never resist its wind-cry.
The moon comes when I call, to help me;
midwife, she is, and she carries into being my new selves
like the babes they are, teaches them to
fill long footsteps like hers.
Truth be told, I tire of the destiny
I was given onceI am a teacup
Literature
A Pocket Full of Sky
When I was young, my father would take me to the highest tower of Notre Dame precisely once a year. It would be cold. Freezing. But we'd stand there, and take deep breaths of air, and peer down, towards the tiny ants of people below. Down, towards the sprawling city beneath us. It was always winter, when we'd go. Always cold. Freezing, freezing. But however cold it was, and however dull and bleary the weather, my father would ask one thing, and one thing only: that we adhered to tradition.
"Lucie," he would say, with the fond smile and kind eyes I always remember. "Lucie, my peach. Whatever you become, and wherever your heart and mind leads
Literature
Euphrosyne
dawn.
legs splash from milky sheets.
she rises from the bed like a wave
and crests, just before bare feet touch wood
and fog crawls across the mirror.
midmorning.
footsteps leave damp prints on the floor.
she sings in muted tendrils that float through
hollow rooms.
the sun dries her hair with copper fingers.
noon.
the shadows bunch beneath her feet
and she tosses them across the sky-
painting clouds over the staring sun.
mile-long legs stretch across the world
and she
makes love to the hand-me-down earth.
afternoon.
her quickened breath becomes the wind
and sails ships across the seven seas.
dusk.
when the sun grows w
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For a dear friend.
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I love the very real presence in this of a second person. Vivid and original story