Glass
There are too many lights hurting my eyes. Different colors flashing. Want to close them. Want to sleep.
He's saying: ma'am, ma'am, can you hear me? I need to you tell me what happened. I need to you to remember and be as detailed as you can. Someone puts a wool blaket around my shoulders and it's summer time in the desert and I want to scream but my face is numb. The blanket is scratching at my neck.
The lights flash. Red. There is a small figure covered by a white sheet. Blue. Broken glass shimmers on the road like ice.
In
Brian likes to play detective. He comes homedrunk and late in his gabardine business suits and looks through my drawers while I pretend to be asleep. Last night he found a letter from an old college boyfriend of mine. Someone I had lost touch with for years. In the morning, he throws it down on the table in front of me and says, "you fucking whore."
Brian is cheating on me, but he doesn't know that I know, so occassionally he pulls theatrics like these. He turns the attention to me because he feels guilty for fucking his secretary. She's twenty-two, has C cup breasts, and a tattoo of a daisy on her right shoulder blade. She's everythi
She closed the door quietly behind herself as she reentered the apartment. Part of her wanted to slide along the door and collapse on the concrete flooring, putting her head in her hands. People often did that in movies when they couldn't deal with the situation outside. But she restrained herself, and went to sit on the couch instead.
There had been a heavy breeze on the roof of the apartment, and it had turned her long black hair into a thousand bird nests. Her fingers got stuck in it when she tried to get the tangles out. Wind always made her feel tangled, and when others remarked how invigorating a cool breeze could be on their chee
There was something super human about those people on the side of the road. It must have been at least one hundred degrees out there in a part of the desert that can't even support most animal life. We were on a state highway in the midst of the wasteland that is southern New Mexico, one of those perfectly straight line highways that disappears on the horizon into rolling waves of heat. It really made you think you were heading nowhere. Even the ranch roads ambled off into the desert with no evidence of civilization at their end.
All of that desolation, and yet, I had never seen so many people walking on the side of a highway. It was a
Public places felt safe because you always had to hold something back. It was the only way to talk, you had to keep your head.
He was sitting across from her, but he had decided not to be present. His jaw was strongly set and a defensive flair of anger was in his eyes.
"Look, I don't know what you think this is, but I'm sure it doesn't warrant that look on your face," she started. "We just haven't had a chance to talk, to really talk, in a long while. I have a lot of things I've been wanting to say." She paused to give him room to speak, but he stayed silent, giving a little nod: permission for her to continue. "All right," she took a
In dreams
I can kiss you,
ask what you think of God,
where you find beauty,
follow the roads
that cross your depths.
Your hair is like it was,
falling raven black
just below your eyes.
We can touch noses
shoulder blades
or the tips of our fingers.
While I sleep
our edges are still soft,
and you are always smiling.
A half moon face
hangs low over the city
pocked and jaundice.
The sad period
marking the end of the night.
You are still with me
your face the mask of grotesque tragedy
and our speech
our dance of pleasantries
filling the performance space with emptiness.
Would we recognize each other
in plain clothes?
Out of character?
Would our lives
match the scripts we've written?
In this war, too,
they list the dead
in silence.
We stare blankly,
unfeeling,
trying out sympathy
and sorrow,
but the heart has been beaten
out of us—
the atrocities of humanity
shut us down
with guilt, and discouraged,
we wave it out of our lives.
We spoke out
once, and our voices
were strangled
and left quiet.
The train car goes underground. The lights flicker and the roar heightens. We are thrust into a deafening entropy. Across the isle a wide-eyed girl bobs her head to each new passenger's footsteps. Her face is bleached and bony. She has the eyes of a wild horse.
At each stop an automaton comes over the speakers. "The doors are closing. Please stand clear of the doors." I close my eyes to escape the girl's stare and the train rattles on, black and bleak.
"The doors are closing. Please stand clear of the doors." My eyes are opened by the screams of a baby. A mother struggles in with two little girls and the baby clasped around her n
An all too often occurrence. by Fancydelic, literature
Literature
An all too often occurrence.
I am going throughout my day, doing all of my perfectly normal activities, and somehow it all seems incredibly difficult. It makes everything so exhausting. Picking up a fork is the equivalent of holding up a fifty pound beam; starting a car is the same as taking an AP Biology final. These feelings make reality especially elusive. Rationally, you know that a fork is not a fifty pound beam but you feel that way all the same; and then you start to question. Why is everything so hard? Why am I bothering to sit here and eat this and make conversation when I could be back at home in bed? And if these feelings continue, all of your sen
Late in the hours of the night
early moments of morning, perhaps,
I am lulled into a lucid dream
by the scratching of my pen.
In this dream I watch as
thin black lines form
letters
words
sentences.
Form the ideas that make me
whole.
There is nothing I would rather do
than sit with my pen and my paper
and let the words shower me with their
meanings and sometimes their
obvious obscurity
all in a flurry of indistinct shapes
that when put together have the power to
kill
or more importantly
the power to heal.
I have,
One foot
in front of the other.
An elusive momentum
propels me
through this dreamscape
that all other sources
assure me
is reality.
Indistinct thoughts
mix with laughter
and the miscellaneous sounds
of life—
all swirling around me
until I am inescapably
trapped
within my own
personal
prison.
The expression
"can't hear myself think"
is more than metaphor.
I am drowning in this
dull roar
and a continual
audiated
shrieking
that feels as if
hell has come up
and decided to reside
in my mind.
I am
barely in tact.
My instincts dim and
like in quicksand
the harder I struggle
the faster I sink.
I never really needed
an explanation
as to why you
cast me aside.
You were
killing me
anyway.
I was being
replaced by that
perfect girl.
The one who
wrote love letters and
cooked breakfast on
Sunday mornings.
The one who would have
eventually
slit her wrists
leaving behind
two little ones
and the
family dog.
So
thank you
for opening my eyes to
what life is.
I had been
mistaken.
I suppose
ultimately
when you so quickly
so quietly
cast me aside
you were saving both of us—
plus those two little ones
and the
family dog.
In this
alarm rings at six
double shot mocha
you're late
you're early
I'm sorry
you have one week to live
world—
where there is too much
of what's unneeded
and not enough
of what is
you're always
searching
for more.
Sometimes
it is enough
to stare at the sky
for hours or
listen to a clock tick—
it is enough to realize
I am alive
for some reason;
that I can survive in this
nightly news
vodka on Sundays
you're beautiful
you're not
I'm sorry
your country is
going to war
world—
and still find
something
worth living for.
I've been dreaming dead mothers. Night after night
I lay my head down and, instead of sleeping, dream
a woman being killed. The death is always sudden.
Either disease - a sudden onset, a quick decline - or murder
at the hands of bandits. There's no other kind of violence,
no rape or anything. Just the death of someone's mother
and then grieving.
The first night it was my boyfriend's mother. I don't
have a boyfriend, but his mother got sick of cancer
suddenly, one night, and he called me at four in the morning
to say, "Kyla, my mother's dying." And I said, "What?
How?" the way my mother says What?! when she hears bad news,
with ind
dictionary and trip to the sea by milpalabras, literature
Literature
dictionary and trip to the sea
The sink is clogged with asterixes -
fool, you're supposed to rinse the kettle
before just sloshing the whole damn
pale-blue mess down.
The dishes are corroded with semicolons,
the apostrophes are spilling from
the chipped, pastel mugs.
It's all going to get caught in the filter,
anyway, he yells, the flicking of his
tin lighter like typewriter keys down the hall.
The towels are gasping, wincing,
with their wrinkled terry-cloth tongues;
when I sink into the scummy tub
for a soak later, they'll still be
whispering about his hullabulloo.
Someone with slow, accented words
is muttering about cocaine
on the radio - scrathy,
We don't have time for this, love.
These days melt away over ankles and throats
like warm milk; over shoulders and mouths
to pool in the hollows of our bodies.
Soon, the days will be bright again; bursting
with springshine and suntime, filling the expectant cups
of our hands to spill over into our emptinesses;
grass will unfurl, breaking the soil with sharp
photosynthetic spines, lapping at the air with verdant
tongues, like fog scattering against city parks.
Summer will be quick on its heels, heavy-handed with a toothy
grin, leering into the faces of every creature it embraces, leaning closely to
mouth searingly at the back of th
Monologue: People and Walls by wildoats, literature
Literature
Monologue: People and Walls
(At rise: Jason is in car with four friends, hotboxing. His speech patterns are erratic as he talks.)
JASON: I'm fine, I'm fine, shut the hell up and I'm fine. Give me a minute and everything will stop pulsing. Ah-haaa, hell. Shit. (Pause.) Uh, is the heat natural? I've never done this before. The heat is natural? (Pause.) I feel like a damn power source. Is the pulsing natural? (Pause.) The pulsing is natural. The heat and the pulsing are natural. You know what it's like? Every three seconds I don't exist again, I forget what I'm made of. Then it's like, somewhere inside me, this explosion, like Eden…it's too much power for
Strangest fog, this illness.
Sylvia talked of tulips and white hospitals
when I was seventeen, and I thought,
"This is morose. This is what maudlin
is meant to mean. What strange
self-indulgence." And now,
I see the inside, or I saw it, once.
It's when the eyes recede into the caverns
of the mind, like cupping your hands
at your temples, except it's bone and skin,
in walls around you and the bright at the end
of the tunnel is really very white.
Strangest fog.
Walk like your body
is not your all.
Talk like a tin can kicked
down the road to sandstone,
soapstone lives you've lived, built
from the matter of your mind,
abrasive,
A breath sits down in me.
The woman across has breathed it,
she is sighing. A struggle is over.
"You have always been love,
through waking dreams and walking
sleeps" - but I cannot speak.
I cannot ever speak
or too many words will go down
our throats and we will choke. Words walking
the heath in my head. But I no longer breathe
wishes. There has always been love,
but it has sat down and my work is over.
What is left is nothing large, nothing overtly
valuable. Just a wish that God would speak;
and the repetitive memory of my head, down
on the floor in prayer - "Let it be a kind of love."
I'll be saying it forever. As for the
I'm not in France anymore. I'm just in Albuquerque. Just being. I know I always say this, but...I'm gonna try to start posting more again. Ha..we'll see what happens this time.
Your 'hi' has been recieved. And will be responded to when the person in question finds the time to type the word 'hi' back. Thank you for your time. And happy holidays.