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Literature Text
it's unusual -
i'm usually not fond of strong drinks
even though
tonight i'm with my two favorite guys;
'cause, it's that time of the month,
year,
life -
time to be stupid and grieve over things
like
listening to the song we listened to
on the night we said good-bye:
love has just started for us
and shit
and god do i need a cigarette
though i never wanted to get addicted
(to cigarettes)
(to you)
and i swear i'll stop
i'll stop
i'll stop
but i know
daniel's may reach my liver and get away
but i can't just touch the angst
and flee -
it stays inside.
charles can pour another glass
and i can go to hell.
it's all over anyway.
once you fuck up,
it's difficult to get back again
even when
you repeat times after times that you're sorry
the thing you're sorry for
still remains.
i'm usually not fond of strong drinks
even though
tonight i'm with my two favorite guys;
'cause, it's that time of the month,
year,
life -
time to be stupid and grieve over things
like
listening to the song we listened to
on the night we said good-bye:
love has just started for us
and shit
and god do i need a cigarette
though i never wanted to get addicted
(to cigarettes)
(to you)
and i swear i'll stop
i'll stop
i'll stop
but i know
daniel's may reach my liver and get away
but i can't just touch the angst
and flee -
it stays inside.
charles can pour another glass
and i can go to hell.
it's all over anyway.
once you fuck up,
it's difficult to get back again
even when
you repeat times after times that you're sorry
the thing you're sorry for
still remains.
Literature
my father lived in India
my father is a man of many colors.
on the nights when the moon stays asleep,
he lotions his palms with pomegranate juice.
the sugared blood pools in the creases of his
skin, staining it India’s red.
sometimes, my father scrubs his hands until
they are nothing but flesh & fruit rinds.
when he was younger—all skinned knees and pocket
knives—he must've slipped on a thousand marbles.
my father’s father was a welder who rolled and spun
steel into tiny spheres.
when he died, my father’s hands became blue and
free of pocket knives. to this day, he keeps a bag
of marbles on our mantle.
from time to time, he s
Literature
The Gentlemen's Alliance #1
Mr Sensible
Mr Sensible likes his coffee flat and dark, the same tongue-searing temperature every single morning. He gets up before the birds do to have his shower, and thus always smells of a mix between roasted coffee beans and that strange almond stuff he uses for his hair. He is clean shaven, and his hair doesn't flop down over his face. He looks his age and acts his age.
When you first meet him, you don't like Mr. Sensible much. But he can carry good conversation and he admits he has a smile he saves just for you. He never has to chase you because unlike most men he can keep up. You go out together without the company of others as frie
Literature
the world doesn't need beauty sleep
mother earth is pregnant;
her curves yawn -
molasses stretches of dark,
dank night freckled with
streetlights sparkling.
i yearn to rest in the cradle
that the small of her back
has become.
the roads untangle like
veins unto her skin
after being held so long
in the fist of pre-dawn.
drunk in slumber, red-eyed,
beautiful - morning will
come yet, the small child
born in the rafters of
catastrophe, aching;
but before her date,
mother earth shifts in her sleep,
love settling in the wing
of her hip -
exhaustion dilutes her blood,
consciousness touches her golden
shoulder on his way out the door.
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yearning for jack daniel's and a cigarette
and reading ''q&a'' by charles bukowski.
this is bad, i don't care. fuck you life.
and reading ''q&a'' by charles bukowski.
this is bad, i don't care. fuck you life.
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