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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
February 19, 2011
I'll not contain you by ~Roulle is sweet on the tongue, reminding me of a man who can leave a woman quivering.
Featured by GwenavhyeurAnastasia
Literature Text
Your legs are quivering bells, my darling--
the bells of a church or the belly of a flower,
they laugh at the touch of my hard tongue,
but I'll not contain you.
I'll not contain you,
though I found you in the earth,
smelling of earth, and your hot
weary hands pushed themselves into mine,
I'll not contain you.
A thin film of years
will grow over your vivid knees
and my restless hands.
We will hunt our quick lives
like packs of silverfish,
and scoop them out of the water,
like river stones.
I will hold these stones in my hand,
still I will not contain you.
At home, the yellowing curtain
of sky sighs before giving itself
to darkness. I found you there again,
naked, smooth, smelling still of earth.
Gigantic in your peace.
I press myself against your summer body,
and see myself contained in your
eyes of iron that are preserved
in mountains and in the sea.
the bells of a church or the belly of a flower,
they laugh at the touch of my hard tongue,
but I'll not contain you.
I'll not contain you,
though I found you in the earth,
smelling of earth, and your hot
weary hands pushed themselves into mine,
I'll not contain you.
A thin film of years
will grow over your vivid knees
and my restless hands.
We will hunt our quick lives
like packs of silverfish,
and scoop them out of the water,
like river stones.
I will hold these stones in my hand,
still I will not contain you.
At home, the yellowing curtain
of sky sighs before giving itself
to darkness. I found you there again,
naked, smooth, smelling still of earth.
Gigantic in your peace.
I press myself against your summer body,
and see myself contained in your
eyes of iron that are preserved
in mountains and in the sea.
Literature
snowbones
holding my hands over the kettle
the skin on my fingertips peels back,
like dated wallpaper,
like flowers blooming.
they're burning from the inside out,
nails turning to varnish, turning to steam,
bones click-clacking their way out;
spreading like wildfire.
the whistling stops, and
blink
and my fingers are just fingers,
ink stained, bitten nails.
sunlight streams across the kitchen,
my fingers warm and
slightly damp, i trace patterns on
steamed-up windows.
Literature
a little perspective
i sit up,
face the sunlight,
and yawn a little
song-
i comb the dreams
from my hair,
letting the world
seep through my skin,
i walk
and slip into
my favorite,
white, white
blouse,
with the
buttons to my
hips,
while children,
with bobbing heads-
thick as bones
and sorrow-
fall into themselves
like little houses
of cards,
only there are no
queens or kings,
only numbers,
only days, only
time, only-
lovers split and lovers
sob and lovers stop
loving and shatter
like mirrors and
single mothers
go poor and some
fathers aren't
fathers anymore,
the streets stink
of death and lies
and cheats and love,
and mem
Literature
Vertigo
He sleeps the sleep of a man
who doesn't yet know that Love
sits sewing her shadow to the dawn,
nursing a subtle,
aching silence in his lungs
with her name, her shape.
He can't fathom how someone
can sit so deep inside him,
shelling the shadows of himself
as though there are moons at their core,
how he no longer believes
in falling lightly in love
but in committing himself
to inevitable call of concrete
or how she lingers like ink on his fingers,
like a story he's still figuring out how to write.
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Comments37
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This is so sensual and visual and lovely