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Literature Text
Flattered by the gossamer glow of a blushing moon,
I scour the poppy-fields for the opiates of inspiration,
the petals brushing against my bare thighs; easing
the tense creases in my neck into shivers down my back.
What wanton joy, as I wander and wade in this sea of red,
the waves of flowers parting before me, waltzing with
the silent wake of my footsteps. I could saunter on forever,
holding nightfall by the waist; nature at my beck and call.
Why do you blush, moon? Is it because of how stark naked
I appear before you, disrobed by your own coaxing caress?
All cares do I brush aside, when on the night you do preside,
and aloft the cloudless sky, gild gleaming eyes with wonder.
Why does Dorian linger in that gray opium den for a whiff
of oblivion, when you could soothe him to sleep with but a blink
of your lidless eye? In a dream would we saunter on forever,
watching nightfall go to waste; nightly would we call out to you,
but you would never answer...
I scour the poppy-fields for the opiates of inspiration,
the petals brushing against my bare thighs; easing
the tense creases in my neck into shivers down my back.
What wanton joy, as I wander and wade in this sea of red,
the waves of flowers parting before me, waltzing with
the silent wake of my footsteps. I could saunter on forever,
holding nightfall by the waist; nature at my beck and call.
Why do you blush, moon? Is it because of how stark naked
I appear before you, disrobed by your own coaxing caress?
All cares do I brush aside, when on the night you do preside,
and aloft the cloudless sky, gild gleaming eyes with wonder.
Why does Dorian linger in that gray opium den for a whiff
of oblivion, when you could soothe him to sleep with but a blink
of your lidless eye? In a dream would we saunter on forever,
watching nightfall go to waste; nightly would we call out to you,
but you would never answer...
Literature
The Scent of Lilacs
Shopworn stones atop fresh moist dirt; how many
kids dug-in filthy handed, searching for treasures
or building castles. Pink pinched cheeks we attempt at
reliving our childhood; more beautiful with each a passing day.
Each day - nothing is the same.
They grew one day; out of spite, resentfulness,
paper rolled memories-cigarettes burn. You said -
you always said - it's all too messy. How can they
let them grow, with their pale purple crowns and their gentle pride worn,
above all that dirt-digging?
The scent of lilacs fills my chest with remorse
no brown-sugar curls, pearl teeth, aluminum eyes
So beautiful each day. They
Literature
blue
Was it mere months ago;
the span of
a lifetime for a crab.
Who would say?
But I knew it was years-
my own lifetime ago.
Where would I be if
I hadn't sensed it up my spine,
on the back of my neck-
if I hadn't felt you walking
aimlessly on the strand.
I was oblivious to the cold,
even as I quaked from the wind
as sunset approached.
I had to know,
now that you existed.
The world was monotone,
even the waves from
within the shells sunken
in the wet sand at low tide
before the last of daylight blinked
from the fog rolling in.
It happened at breakwater-
I laid eyes on you for the
first and
Literature
sunrise, sunset, unrise, unset
you rise
like a cancerous sun
and orbit away from
me, this, everything
(nothing = synonym)
you set
and you're (g)(one)
for a not-her night
(i need a calendar)
you rise,
swing two steps to the left,
and disappear to your star-
Less skies; no, wait, you've
got a star. but you're apart
of anot(me)her constellation
(please let me eat the moon)
you set
me, UP, (on your pedestal)
TO FA_L
like a chain reaction;
butterfly contraption
(i sink like a domino)
your eyes
follow me.
like a poor trai
Suggested Collections
laudanum - a concoction of opium used as a narcotic or for pain relief.
dorian - Wilde's 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'.
thanks
dorian - Wilde's 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'.
thanks
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Comments75
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And I love Oscar Wilde.