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Literature Text
Turning leaves remind me that some people change along with the seasons.
Leaf. Leaves. Leaving.
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Hush. If you listen real close, you can hear leaves laughing as they let go of the twigs that adore them. They flutter quietly to the ground, their graceful suicides silent to everyone except their beloved branches.
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Look, the world is orange and jagged and rusted. It is decadence and leaves and leaving. It is home, it is heaven, and it is hell.
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One by one, the trees ignite themselves and we watch their soundless self-destruction unfold. Whole forests seem to go up in flames without smoke. Sometimes we take pictures.
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We are only left with black and brown skeletons that patiently wait to be buried under white.
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I spend my entire autumn watching things die.
Leaf. Leaves. Leaving.
-
Hush. If you listen real close, you can hear leaves laughing as they let go of the twigs that adore them. They flutter quietly to the ground, their graceful suicides silent to everyone except their beloved branches.
-
Look, the world is orange and jagged and rusted. It is decadence and leaves and leaving. It is home, it is heaven, and it is hell.
-
One by one, the trees ignite themselves and we watch their soundless self-destruction unfold. Whole forests seem to go up in flames without smoke. Sometimes we take pictures.
-
We are only left with black and brown skeletons that patiently wait to be buried under white.
-
I spend my entire autumn watching things die.
Literature
Dear Me
Dear Little Rachel,
Yes, darling, you. You standing in the queue to get out of the airport, wrapped up as though it was minus 20 degrees Celsius outside when it was just 16 degrees. You there, aged eleven years old, your skin used to humidity and now cracking up like aging plaster in the blast of dry August air.
I know who you are. You brought me to life by your dreams, your bitter recollections of better days as you tried to defog the future, only to realise it was as misty as ever. I am who you are then, and you are who I am now. Call me a time traveller, talking to you and breaking a hundred physical laws but trust me, I'm just here to g
Literature
5404 broadway boulevard
something still lives in
aisles of extracted engines hanging full pelt in
hulking remains in
the suburban neighborhoods of filed radiators
more or less identical and
lined up like boxes on hillsides they've been
ripped clean from mangled metal bellies like
fetuses in
the grey concrete sounds of junkyard men
with hands so dirty they never scrub clean in
oil puddles and roaming dogs in
rain on rooftops that double as ceilings.
a half mile out under a sky like
frostbite and cashmere a sunset like
jaundice or rust there are
rows of pulled pistons silent, standing
sentinel, stainless steel heat sterilized
with the welding
Literature
Recipe for Bad Poetry
How to Write Bad Poetry:
Start with: SCISSORS
Scissors are very good cutting your prose
into pieces (as well as fending off mobs of real poets).
It works better if you start with
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Comments48
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A beautiful poem. Cheers!