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Literature Text
I'm an awning-bound baby,
all denim and dopamine.
You're sporting a cardigan,
and a knack for trigonometry.
Toaster waffle junkies,
with blue eyes.
I bridge the canyon between our lips on tip-toe:
(It is more than three inches, but less than thirty miles)
My subdermal south-sun shows through sometimes,
and you're arterially Scandinavian.
I count the stars,
and you count down from 9 to 5.
Statistically, baby, we're damned.
all denim and dopamine.
You're sporting a cardigan,
and a knack for trigonometry.
Toaster waffle junkies,
with blue eyes.
I bridge the canyon between our lips on tip-toe:
(It is more than three inches, but less than thirty miles)
My subdermal south-sun shows through sometimes,
and you're arterially Scandinavian.
I count the stars,
and you count down from 9 to 5.
Statistically, baby, we're damned.
Literature
She was Beautiful
We have a daughter
called poetry—
quiet with little fuss—
looking up
& molding us as god.
Her small verbs
span indifferent cities,
aloof mountain ranges,
& the hours of
blank faced clocks
between sunrises.
She knows there are
worse things than dark—
the black waters of the mind
are scarier.
We have created her
from love,
pressed & dried bouquets
& willow sticks—
things only we
could make a life from.
One day we'll wake up
as different people
but the magic
of a shared procreation
will keep us tied—
wanting to see each other's
newly patchworked faces.
We have a daughter
called poetry—
Literature
Appassionata
Claire does not find him at his funeral.
Dean's body lies in an open casket, face-up with soft wrinkles and loose muscles. There is nothing of her husband in this corpse. He was rough and jagged. It seems wrong to see his edges smoothed down.
She hovers over his body and feigns sorrow. She hears family and friends weep and whisper comfort into each others' ears behind her. They offer their words and shoulders to her and she nods politely and pretends to cry.
All the while, she traces the ring on her finger and does not flinch when the diamond cuts into skin.
Claire looks for her husband. It is exhausting, but she has time.
In the rooms o
Literature
Where Cats Go.
I'm the girl who inhaled the world.
Lucid dreaming backwards, kicking rocks
Skipping rocks, stacking boulders
Building the earth's womb,
I planted dreams.
The pyramids; triangle hips, sleep apnea; her postmortem floods and quakes
Nine months later,
I placed pennies over her eyes, Inhaled. Exhaled-
And heaved out mounds of soil, wet vines,
Some dark, cavernous underground.
My ribs choked and packed Creation. My temper split Pangaea
And by Sunday I had left Earth to live with the Cats.
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The man.boy.guy I am in love with is a sociology major.
He reminds me all the time, they statistically, we don't share any of the common traits that lead to long, happy relationships.
But.
He reminds me all the time, they statistically, we don't share any of the common traits that lead to long, happy relationships.
But.
© 2010 - 2024 chipmunku
Comments57
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Wow, I've just stumbled across this and it's beautiful. That DD of yours was well-deserved.
I think my favourite line is Statistically, baby, we're damned. - it seems (to me) to have a hint of we're gonna die, but who cares, and I love it.
I think my favourite line is Statistically, baby, we're damned. - it seems (to me) to have a hint of we're gonna die, but who cares, and I love it.