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Literature Text
between the red roof tiles,
the wrought iron balconies
somewhere in the bottom of a
fountain, swimming in cents and
discarded thoughts, lies my heart.
it swells, filling itself with words, it is
always hungry for words now not visions,
sees more in the ink drops from Kafka’s pen
than in the swirling paints dotted across Mucha’s desk
and the tourists flock and ebb, whistling through the
streets like the breeze, from castle to church and
back again, and the carriages cycle and the
cars churn the earth of the city, leaving
sunken trails around that fountain in
that square, a secluded island
where the only sights are
full pages, the only sounds
the click of coins, the quiet
sigh of a pulse slowing down
the wrought iron balconies
somewhere in the bottom of a
fountain, swimming in cents and
discarded thoughts, lies my heart.
it swells, filling itself with words, it is
always hungry for words now not visions,
sees more in the ink drops from Kafka’s pen
than in the swirling paints dotted across Mucha’s desk
and the tourists flock and ebb, whistling through the
streets like the breeze, from castle to church and
back again, and the carriages cycle and the
cars churn the earth of the city, leaving
sunken trails around that fountain in
that square, a secluded island
where the only sights are
full pages, the only sounds
the click of coins, the quiet
sigh of a pulse slowing down
Literature
proprioception
she claims
that you can spot virginity in the curve
of the hips.
i tell her
you can't see chastity in the way
the ilium crests, unless you fucked hard enough
to break it.
she smiles,
shows me the bruises carved into her bones,
traces the way his fingers held her-
what if you're already broken
to begin with?
Literature
A Poem of No One
he tells me
fix it -
i say it has a face
swamps running down in each of its eyes
weeds in its teeth
with needles for veins
it has a pulse like the tide, rolling in its ears
it snaps the necks of daisies and wonders if there’s an easier way to leave a field
it wants to know why god is everywhere but why there’s only one
angel sitting next to it in english - i say, and
it pours in a cup of its soul until the end isn't bitter
loses its heart with its keys and holds itself out in its hands
until love isn't dead-stiff anymore
it listens to clocks rattle like a box of bones
and notices that it sounds like its heart in the night.
{i
Literature
my neighbour has a garden.
my neighbour has a garden
& not many flowers bloom,
but he tends to it with great care –
his garden is bereft of birds,
stripped of glee or sunlight,
& rain always seems to bathe the ground
his daughters don’t come by anymore;
it’s just me in his backyard,
listening to his war stories told to no one –
he tells them to the wind with tears in his eyes,
(begging someone to please
“listen to me”)
but little does he know that the wind
has a name
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25/7/14
I just got back from a city break to Prague, the city is so beautiful - the perfect muse
Edit: Featured a-shadow-rose.deviantart.com/j…
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I just got back from a city break to Prague, the city is so beautiful - the perfect muse
Edit: Featured a-shadow-rose.deviantart.com/j…
ezradeacon.deviantart.com/jour…
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Comments9
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Beautiful imagery. Instead of fragments of a picture, I see the entire thing very clearly. Nice work!