The best of tales


I fell hard, such is the consequence of a colorful lure

Flickering in shallow water lit by hope

the world was messy, like a thirsty rag soaked with blood

still not gaining sustainence

sickness an albatross, urging me to frail edge

I had yet to learn that words can possess no value

be simply pretty things, we are misled by like Xmas baubles, turned over to reflect pattern

how can a writer realize, words can be emptier than a hollow tree?

people who write them, do so with convincing candor all enveloping like hard sales pitch

it’s impossible to believe they’re just words, without meaning, or worse, deliberate opposite

of truth, that sparten ideal, sucking ice for nourishment

when the wet ass hour comes, and it always comes

those who stay, are not those who wrote long entreaty

not the flatterers, cake-bakers, trumpet players

they are usually the last you’d…

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Forever Lost


Forever Lost

“Where they burn books, they will, in the end, also burn people.” – Heinrich Heine

The book was waiting for her in the shelf, as it always was. Waiting to be opened, to be read, to come back to life. To exist.

Written by hand centuries ago it had survived wars and famine. The essence of it’s author was still alive in the curved lines of the letters, in the beautiful words, in the magic spaces between them. Thought of a mind long gone, but still alive in the minds of others.

She loved her book. It was the only book she had, the book her father used when he thought her to read. It had been in her family for generations, before that, no one knew more than the name of its author.

Sitting in her favourite chair by the window, she heard noises outside. She put down…

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Things I will Preserve

There are things that I want to protect. Like the oxydised carbon,
like your mouth and my ferocious voice.
My earth shaped body: heaven resist into my temple mind,
like your inundate doses of love prayers to me.
Your sun kissed pavements, mosaic dreams.
Your vintage lullaby’s while I am a mess.
The sunsets that we adored while we clicked our moist tongues
There are things I want to count time and again.
The hush oceanic fingerprints you carved onto my bosom
The silence that we sank into,the eruptions of sordid lust and galaxies revolving
If I had a red box, I will preserve your words, pictures, stained teacups,
the old mahogany chair on which we did crosswords together
That old whiskey smelling blankets I hid
after you were gone,
I want to count it again and again.
Your white shirts piling on my naval,
like a tropical meadow of white roses
The cold layers of evening when I drank and danced
You kissed me like a new born baby’s skin,
My abhorrence divided right here,
Till my skin melted,aroused and melted again in yours,
I will count that further and further.

via Things I will Preserve

Emily Dickinson on Poetry

“If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?”
Emily Dickinson
(December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886)

via on poetry