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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
bed
It's a stabbing sight
Letting in the morning with a crack of the shades
And you forget you could page-turn horizons
Waft through free territory
Where acres are just beds
Made of fresh land
Wrinkles in the river
Tell remembered times
About old languages that could make you cry
About soft beds that carve away canyons
A speaking voice lifted from the earth
Begging you to remember
Literature
for unseeing eyes
laden with sky
we stumbled
and painted mockingbirds
on loveless branches
folding in our slender limbs
and ducking under our own
voices, fidgety and frail
against the wall of night.
between the dipping blades
and drawn shoulders
we learned to craft our words
steady-soft,
a drumming rain
that carved canyons
in open hearts and
drew the sunshine to
our supping lips.
keen-eyed, we watched
remembering the weight
of unseeing eyes
and scalding remarks
and we learned to slip
the noose-knots and slide
through the soul-cracks
and somehow
build kingdoms under
upturned noses.
with lyrical uncertainty
and tender determinat
Literature
Send Me the Rain
today, they're all talking about the fires.
the people on TV, the voices on the radio,
the mouths that open and whisper
and softly touch tongues. even the sky is
revealing black plumes of smoke,
flaunting shameless and seductive curves.
the rain's been too dry and the lightning
isn't wet enough, panic is
rising out of control in this
burning city. that's
not all;
we have a crisis on
our hands- the balloons are
running out of air and even
the experts don't really know why,
and on top of those sinking rubber toys
my soul is losing moisture
faster than the crackling grass under the duress of flame.
i'm sta
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For a dear friend.
Comments54
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I love the very real presence in this of a second person. Vivid and original story