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Literature Text
He said chickadee,
'cause that's what they've been
calling me.
The chick with the car
and her very own language
and rehab for sophistication.
Behind their backs, gang hangers
rewrite official business men's
term papers,
and their leader woman
cavorts to the conversation tones.
But I still give slang to the new boys,
the ones I meet, who
offer a smoke ever-why time.
I, ever-why time, convince
it's too much of a decision
to pick a cigarette.
He stuck around
after his initiation cigar,
trying to let this slanguage
slip into his ette-cloud.
'cause that's what they've been
calling me.
The chick with the car
and her very own language
and rehab for sophistication.
Behind their backs, gang hangers
rewrite official business men's
term papers,
and their leader woman
cavorts to the conversation tones.
But I still give slang to the new boys,
the ones I meet, who
offer a smoke ever-why time.
I, ever-why time, convince
it's too much of a decision
to pick a cigarette.
He stuck around
after his initiation cigar,
trying to let this slanguage
slip into his ette-cloud.
Literature
bus
dust animals
loll and swirl against
fake forest leather
peering
(around sable beaststrands,
sun-sullied to pyrite)
at a garbled missive
scratched and misconstrued,
its stories unvoiced-
"warm is uncomfortable;
cold is far worse."
Literature
Turned Down
Jared hurried through the door of the apartment, slamming it shut behind him. He lumbered his way across to the lone kitchen chair and sat down hard in an exhausted heap, wheezing as if he had just beat Lance Armstrong in the Tour de France. Mentally, he was still in a daze; his mind buzzed around like a fly on crack that just couldn't find his way out of the blender. He hadn't expected murder to be such tiring business.
Eventually, after huffing, puffing, and sweating in the kitchen chair, Jared snapped back into conscious thought. He was safe at home and thinking now would be as good a time as any for a drink. He poured a haphazard sp
Literature
umbrellas
I.
A boy putters in the hotel
corridor, leashed
by a single thread of duty--
it is wound
twice around the doorknob,
pulls taut at his wrist.
Recede through the keyhole,
and his keepers are weary,
sprawled like dead
leaves on bedspreads,
and fading
into sleep.
II.
A small girl wails, maybe three,
her teethy pitch escalating
by years.
In the rented night,
her last cry strangles,
undone by hands
on wrists.
III.
A forty-foot red curtain separates us
from the amphibious stage.
At the cirque du soleil
(i squint to see the sun),
clowns chase leaks
with patchy umbrellas.
This is a present, a moment
like a birthday. But
Suggested Collections
Yeah, babe.
So, I totally didn't notice the internal rhyme until someone pointed out the rhythm, and it's pretty cool, yeah.
So, I totally didn't notice the internal rhyme until someone pointed out the rhythm, and it's pretty cool, yeah.
© 2006 - 2024 LaVerneT
Comments8
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aww my lil poet/writer is so talented ^^