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Literature Text
and she is a chestnut, just like me;
roasting those pale thighs in the sun,
freckles blooming like tulips in a Rorschach,
dearest-Watson smiles sashaying from her
hand-over-laugh lips.
Backwards, bent-double,
together we are leaping over rooftops,
swimming like Dory: down, singing.
I am autumn's atonement,
and she is summer's smile;
a blatant refusal to slick sun-screen
on tan-hungry shoulders.
While the rains sleep,
she sighs and reverse-curls
to my side, covers thrown opposite
into the gap's thirsty, darkened maw:
open-less eyes fluttering in the partiality of
dreams - like a deformity of recollection;
an inability to accept reality as definable
by light.
I am autumn's atonement,
and she is summer's smile;
lifting up on elbows to decipher
the rache scratched inaudibly into
those noctilucent cloud-layers -
pinkish fingernails
tenaciously worn to the quick.
Sometimes, she hides in plain-sight,
hunting amongst the crowd for a
delight; alas, poor Yorick:
skull in the palm of her hand.
She is quaffing coffee
by the cup-full,
patches discarded as poisonously-sweet.
She is a chestnut, just like me,
as we balance on our bellies
watching the surf come in and
the moon rise all full and white
to fill in the ozone-holes leaking
star-matter.
She doodles "peace" on her arms,
and I feel the violin of thought
vibrate in my temples - supplanting.
The Sir was right:
to die is, truly, an art.
roasting those pale thighs in the sun,
freckles blooming like tulips in a Rorschach,
dearest-Watson smiles sashaying from her
hand-over-laugh lips.
Backwards, bent-double,
together we are leaping over rooftops,
swimming like Dory: down, singing.
I am autumn's atonement,
and she is summer's smile;
a blatant refusal to slick sun-screen
on tan-hungry shoulders.
While the rains sleep,
she sighs and reverse-curls
to my side, covers thrown opposite
into the gap's thirsty, darkened maw:
open-less eyes fluttering in the partiality of
dreams - like a deformity of recollection;
an inability to accept reality as definable
by light.
I am autumn's atonement,
and she is summer's smile;
lifting up on elbows to decipher
the rache scratched inaudibly into
those noctilucent cloud-layers -
pinkish fingernails
tenaciously worn to the quick.
Sometimes, she hides in plain-sight,
hunting amongst the crowd for a
delight; alas, poor Yorick:
skull in the palm of her hand.
She is quaffing coffee
by the cup-full,
patches discarded as poisonously-sweet.
She is a chestnut, just like me,
as we balance on our bellies
watching the surf come in and
the moon rise all full and white
to fill in the ozone-holes leaking
star-matter.
She doodles "peace" on her arms,
and I feel the violin of thought
vibrate in my temples - supplanting.
The Sir was right:
to die is, truly, an art.
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For my sister. She's a Sherlock fan; maybe some of you will get the references. If not...oh well, perhaps you will get the Shakespeare reference.
on a side note: I think brunettes should be called chestnuts instead. it sounds cooler.
on a side note: I think brunettes should be called chestnuts instead. it sounds cooler.
© 2012 - 2024 sense-and-stupidity
Comments16
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Beautiful work Congrats on the DLD