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Literature Text
Wounded? Dead!
Will they now sow my bones
in successive rows, corn cobs flowing
in the sod? Such an end!
Will my marrow feed the worms?
My sinews curl around the roots that
suck their life-food from my blood?
Oh, such an end; I must deserve
it.
Wounded and dead
scattered like so much chaff
throughout these green ravines. Could
this have been a breathing being—
pumping, plump—pulp.
These bushes, thorns and blossoms, they
have fed upon the unfettered
bodies of the free. And look at me:
wandering through the rows, singing
prose and feeling sadness or intensity in
throes.
Will they now sow my bones
in successive rows, corn cobs flowing
in the sod? Such an end!
Will my marrow feed the worms?
My sinews curl around the roots that
suck their life-food from my blood?
Oh, such an end; I must deserve
it.
Wounded and dead
scattered like so much chaff
throughout these green ravines. Could
this have been a breathing being—
pumping, plump—pulp.
These bushes, thorns and blossoms, they
have fed upon the unfettered
bodies of the free. And look at me:
wandering through the rows, singing
prose and feeling sadness or intensity in
throes.
Literature
On Ariadne
the loom of lust:
In the heart of your ears,
and till your outstretched feet
the spinner of mad red has corrupted,
her fingers like dragonflies threading
bark and twined grass into your hair
around your sure wrists, your angled feet
'this is love, my shining bride-to be,' you whisper,
and disappear with her among billowing black sails.
the abandonment of Ariadne:
He wooed you in a labyrinth of spinners,
and wed you in black sails, beneath jealous skies.
'Sleep and tomorrow you shall be Queen of Athens,'
Ariadne, sleep, tomorrow the sun will shine,
and the sea will ebb sympathetic away from
these deserted sands.
the death, or descent:
Spin,
Literature
I'll not contain you
Your legs are quivering bells, my darling--
the bells of a church or the belly of a flower,
they laugh at the touch of my hard tongue,
but I'll not contain you.
I'll not contain you,
though I found you in the earth,
smelling of earth, and your hot
weary hands pushed themselves into mine,
I'll not contain you.
A thin film of years
will grow over your vivid knees
and my restless hands.
We will hunt our quick lives
like packs of silverfish,
and scoop them out of the water,
like river stones.
I will hold these stones in my hand,
still I will not contain you.
At home, the yellowing curtain
of sky sighs before giving itself
to d
Literature
I was Eros once.
I stuffed my throat,
eyes,
and pockets full of roses.
I tied myself up with heartstrings.
I set myself on fire.
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I wrote this in April, and I still like it, after all these months.
Comments7
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Wow, this is really beautiful! Very crafty as well, it really flows. Wonderful!