Today is New Years Eve, so before we share the roundup for December, on behalf of the Lit CVs, I wish you all a fantastic 2013!
It’s been a year of progression for the literature community, one I hope you will all join us on the continued journey for 2013. The community isn’t just 4 volunteers, it is ALL OF YOU, and I hope you share your ideas and get involved.
December has showcased some fantastic pieces of writing, and because of this we have actually snuck in a few bonus features. On Christmas day, we had 4 Literature DDs and from mid-December onwards we added some extra DDs over the weekend- something which we will now be doing every weekend!
(ps. Did anyone notice we’d snuck in some extra DDs lately?)
Here is the roundup for December:
Features by BeccaJS
Demons are Smarter Than YouThe mist obediently hovers within the binding circle, coming once more and tamely to my call. How raucous it was when first I summoned it! How loudly it roared its name to the ceiling—how silent were the heavens that night. But now it is silent when it arrives, as silent as the heavens when I call, for I have bade it so. With it comes the sulfurous reek of its home and its own pets—a pair of tiny bat-winged imps no larger than my hand—and a deepening of the shadows in my basement conjury.:thumb337961898:
The fool has cast his spells of summoning again, and never were more clichéd words uttered than in this room. He thinks I am silent because he ordered me to be; I am silent because I know that were I to speak, I would reveal the true depth of his idiocy. And that simply would not do. Not now that I've invested so much time into making this little room homely. My "little" pets—if the stupid scholar knew their true shapes, he would die of fright—are
Mature Content
Six Word Storymy mother kept smiles in bottles
RosesYou love too much, I am told by a man with a briar heart, thorny sinews and collapsed ventricles bearing down on him, hardly beating in his tight chest. He looks at me with flat, slate eyes, chipping and eroding. His hands are dark with cigarette burns and rough with calluses; I feel them on my shoulders as he looks down at me, face collapsing in at his eyes like a dead man's.
For the first time, I realize he is dead. His briar heart dried up when winter killed his rose; my father, he is all thorns.
He squeezes my shoulders, too tight. You look like your mother, you know, he whispers, eyes shifting to the garden, to the yellow rose I planted for her. It is a rambler, sending shoots to the sky that sink back down. We never gave it a trellis. I loved her too much. And there are tears in his eyes, wet, heavy things that slip down his cheeks and on to the grass below us.
I don't know what to say, so I think of the rose, of her. I think that I'd like to send this
Continental DriftI suppose you call this time fall.
It’s always autumn to me. Your alien mind
likes to speak in a distorted tongue.
And when we see the spinning leaves
drifting down an eggshell sky
I catch oak, and your hands are empty.
There half the houses stand empty,
you say as you watch rain fall.
There the world is bigger than the sky,
with room for my restless mind.
I know you pine for maple leaves,
for bittersweet syrup on your tongue.
The words are waiting to leave your tongue.
This land is small and your heart is empty.
That’s why everyone ups and leaves.
This place is paradise after the fall,
There you can be naked. No one would mind,
no one would see you bare yourself to the sky.
Through the window is my perfect sky,
the places that come easy to my tongue,
If we left maybe no one would mind
but me, I say. But if your land is empty
who would catch me in your wondrous fall?
If your land is perfect, wha
MoonlessThe moonless evening
turns its back against the sky
and leaves it empty.
Perhaps the morning
will come back with its hands full,
holding up the sun.
WhitewashWhen you're five years old you set a promise in the dark, your sister's ice-queen eyes witness. Millie is sitting straight-backed against the headboard, face wide and earnest, and it seems as if the world has heaped itself on her shoulders, or maybe it's the strangeness of midnight.
"We can't make our wills or anything like that until we're eighteen," she says fiercely. "But I might forget this by then."
In later years you will find time to reflect that you're not as whimsical as Millie; young, you only think then that you could never forget something this important. But you can't argue with the three-years-older she holds above your head (the wisest bestest elder sister in the world.)
Your love for her borders on hero-worship, and looking back, you sometimes wonder if that's healthy.
The door bangs shut. "Jodie!"
How strange, the way it works: your hand is frozen to the table in the way it should have been on the phone, but that was minutes ago and maybe it was delayed-reaction, becau
Radioactive Snowflakes Oh boy, boy, boy
For the last shall be,
and that arctic disposition will melt away in time
written on a hearth rug, read it and then
turn the dial back and tune into Goodbye FM
"Oh boy, boy, boy
Goldilocks should have been clad in HazMat,
bear in mind the Gouda enacts the rat trap"
For the last shall be,
when fractals free fall from the sky
thickening icycle eyes, cementing prisms with time
...and I
measured it all in half-life
Oh boy, boy boy
That arct
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Renew
The pig carcass filled most of the stainless tub where the delivery men had laid it. Freshly slaughtered, but not butchered, it had taken four of them to lift it there. None of them spoke to Rinnovi, only pausing for him to sign for the animal before they left.
On the way to the door, one of the men pointed at the stickers affixed to virtually every item in the house; black typewritten names and addresses on white shipping labels. The leader of the group nudged him and shook his head 'no', before hurrying him out the door.
Rinnovi poured a scotch, and turned on the kitchen vid display, his own visage peering back at him with a smile. He froze the frame, leaving the remote on the island beside the second stainless tub.
"Osiris, prepare to renew." He spoke aloud to the empty room.
"Preparations underway." The voice, angel soft and faintly Irish filled the room seemingly from everywhere at once. Both of the tubs began to fill with a steaming viscous liquid, spattering against the steel, a
cosmic background radiationThey say that the big bang was not an actual "bang". It was really just static. Static, like the interference of radio waves. Of course, the universe did not happen instantaneously. The big bang took 760,000 years to happen. 760,000 years of static, and bang, the universe happened.
I get myself together and actually go out. I go to see the New York Philharmonic perform the works of John Cage at Lincoln Center. I walk out during the second movement of 4'33". There's a very small difference between life and death. I walk home, my chin pulled down against my neck. I hum a constant note, providing myself with my own tinnitus.
I focus on this note. I cross Broadway where the walkers cluster on the curbside, awaiting the turn of the traffic light. People talking and the bioacoustic noises of their bodies moving. I walk against the signal. The tires of taxis scrape against the road. I go west on 65th Street, past Brooks Brothers and the slimy sliding of the revolving door, past vans parallel
Features by neurotype-on-discord
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mia culpa, mia miasmaI'm still counting chromosomes and odd numbers
still playing hopscotch over the symmetry
of your shoulder blades, your whispers
skipping 'cross the seventy percent water
the one forty proof rum, still running
running sheep
until we can sleep,
we,
that thing they called relationship
something common, like counting
rocks at the bottom of a wishing well.
I am slipping through, sliding into
a seamless cervix, and she's serving
throat lozenges in the mean time,
mean time and mean country
serving time in this union, this marriage,
they served cough and coffee
held the Capricorn, held up the register
held the infant to the sagging bosom of
Hollywood and serfdom and surplus
as the nagging empress struts her new clothing
on the turnpikes of Mulholland Drive.
can you feel the elasticity of time as sleep approaches
as the veal spills over red royal carpet
like tumbleweed's of lamb chops rolling 'round
Rockefeller's city center.
so shed dead skin
and skim the film of old money
see my t
The Substitution ParadigmThe Substitution Paradigm
Ramu came up to our table. Glaring at me, he said, “You either order something or get out.”
I glanced away from the threat, and turned to Raghav. A single drop of sweat was running down his brow. Ramu saw that too and identifying his prey, he sprung.
Swinging around, he faced Raghav, “Order something or get out.”
Then Ramu just stood there. It was not as if we had rehearsed it before hand, but he knew. He knew that my co-occupants generally folded in the first round. Only the stout made it to second level, but they too buckled under Ramu’s relentless gaze.
I always had a policy of not spending on other people’s problems. My purse was already slimmer than the waist of a size zero model. So, I simply sat there, watching the lion circling his prey.
A few seconds later, the prey went down. “Two coffees”, Raghav said, wiping away the sweat with a handkerchief.
Ramu turned his head back, gave me a leering smile, and we
PhilosoraptorOne of the most intriguing nuances of the Universe is that, time and again, it manages to outdo itself in terms of sheer oddity. One of these examples dwells on the validus humus* Gaia, north on the lateral plane of the galactic core of G2427626, known as the Milky Way galaxy in some ares of the Universe.
This creature, of primarily upright reptilian descent, is around the height of a larval valde vermis; it is omnivorous, with large claws and excellent vision, and can bring down a grown bupholant with little effort. It is perfectly adapted to its environment, and by every law of nature and evolution it should not have developed intelligence; of course, these laws do not allow for cosmic intervention.
Several centuries before the advent of homo sapien on Gaia, one of the the raptors was found calculating the orbit of Gaia's moon-suns. This event in itself was not so strange; indeed, any respectable intelligence could do so easily. No, what made this raptor such an aberration was that i
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John at 3:16Dear Jesus Christ,:thumb252766656:
I went to bed at 3:16 last night and started thinking about John—John who pissed away every paycheck he ever made and only fucked virgins, John who beat up a woman's husband and spent a Christmas in jail, John who shot himself on the front porch of his mother's house. I don't think anyone shed a tear except her. I heard she shed many tears as she cleaned up the mess.
I thought about when I first met him. It was at church. He and I were both eight. He sat next to me and we stared at that stained glass image of you in your white robe with your outstretched, loving arms, and he leaned into me and asked, "Do you believe in Jesus?"
"Of course," I said. "Don't you?"
He didn't answer. But it was Communion that day and he ate your body and drank your blood just like everyone else, and I thought he had to believe in you because you were inside of him.
I asked him once, Jesus Christ, I asked him if he believed in you and he said, "I want to. But everyone says I have
YellowMy parents bought a little two-bedroom house when they first got married. It was run down, falling apart, but most importantly: cheap.
Two years later, my mother fell pregnant with me. She immediately abandoned her job for some plaster and paint and set about decorating the untouched spare room. She splashed pastel yellow across the walls, replaced the dingy carpet and kitted out the room with furniture.
Sixteen years after my birth, and the yellow paint is flaking off the walls revealing the kiwi green beneath. I can peel back the corners of the carpet to reveal the worn underlay and half rotten floorboards. I can examine the fringe of my cream curtains where the bright yellow hasn't been bleached by the sun. The room is, more or less, unchanged. It has merely lost its sheen, much like the inhabitant of it.
I remained an only child; filling my days with quiet solitary games and elaborate stories whispered under my breath. My isolation only increased as I grew too big for the room that
sunrise, yulethis was the year of traditions begun. the world still dark, the morning still early, i climbed into my uncle's car. we drove out to the ocean, where the rippling sea fuses with the sky. white-headed eagles were perched still in trees. they cocked back their heads, opened their hooked mouths and screamed.
across an empty parking lot where once a cat had followed us. over driftwood pale with frost and sand hardened by the cold, we walked. our breath came out of us in thin plumes. it rose above us and hung there like smoke signals to the gods.
there were gulls on the water, gulls sifting through sand, gulls with their grey backs and faces, their opportunism. i have a tarot deck whose theme is birds. the gull encourages us to communicate.
there was a small group of us gathered there, my uncle and i, and some other pagans. some of them i'd never met before, but they wer
Yet Another Christmas CarolIt was Christmas, celebrated all around Earth - and in Heaven, of course. As for elsewhere...
If you believe for a single second that the devils don't celebrate Christmas, you are, well, right, actually. They keep very quiet about it. Not even a mouse would dare speak about it to the Almighty Fiend, Lucifer. The sole exception to this unspoken rule had happened a few years back on the occasion of a Satanically spiked MTV "Merry Christmas" video which had seemed like a good idea for a few hours. Until it became obvious that it had been a pointless endeavor – those who watched MTV regularly had been mostly unaffected, those who didn't had had their opinions on the low quality of the station confirmed and, generally, it had been a fruitless fiasco.
You didn't talk to Lucifer on Christmas. It was the same as going to him on Easter, patting him on the back and saying "There, there, mate. Anybody would have thought that killing Jesus was a good idea. I mean,
They Also Serve Who Only Stand and WaitI don't know when we first went underground. I don't even know if it was one mass exodus, a swarm of mankind trickling through the earth's crust so vehement we carved our own caverns by the force of trampling feet, or whether it was a gradual process, perhaps even a repetitive one, a family here, a neighborhood there. For all I know, the echo of the damp subterranean machine has always reverberated off the cave walls, created long past by the Angels, who think of our well-being even while they shake their heads helplessly at our flaws.
They say that those who remained on the surface were raptured away in a great flash of light, like a million suns converted into raw energy all at once. While it was rumored once that the flash was our doing, our own horrid creation, we all know better now. It was the Maker who brought it forth from the void and cast it onto the earth's crust, as though shot from an immense sling, taking only those who were brave enough to trust in Him. We, who live in t
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Mature Content
Features by Nichrysalis
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SomedayJane and Ellis floated parallel to one another across the vast canvas of space, eyeing the marble-like planets that slowly crept past them. Their skin reflected the starlight with a dull orange sheen. Ellis had called it 'planet gazing,' an activity he apparently thought suitable for a date.
"Do you see that one below us?" Ellis said, pointing to a round blue mass.
Jane shrugged.
"Isn't it beautiful?" he asked. "I'll bet it's beautiful on the surface, too. Like the way the dust begins to spiral when a star is forming."
"Something like that," Jane said. She didn't understand his excitement. Planets were nothing interesting. They were just stars without the fire; black holes without the absence of color; asteroids with an atmosphere. They were just specks of light that littered the sky. The only remotely interesting thing she knew about planets was that the gas in their atmosphere were extremely lethal. Big whoop, she thought. Floating, atmospheric rocks of death. Ellis sure knew how to
IfWe can
draw lines and give them names
like elements
as they are discovered
Or etch into our skins
this soloecal desire
until it is impossible to tell
where words stop
and life begins.
I would
Find a common rhythm that includes
you in my arms, my hands
and lungs and thoughts
tracing the outline of you
entangled with me
colliding like two lost particles
locked in a shared gravity
drifting through the vacuum
of space.
I could.
Exhale, and
remember
sentence structure.
rootslike drowned men who have lost their
clothes and faces, they lay suspended
facing the sun and grinning without
eyes through the ripples of the water.
those passing by wonder how they got here,
these homeless men without fingers or toes
long spindly stumps twisting into lost roots:
reaching to the east, to the south,
to the homes they have forgotten.
Boylan BooksI first see Neal across the open sparkle mall floor, paused in serious contemplation thought speaking solely to self, whispers not for ears or voices only thoughts, shining thoughts, open thoughts thinking marvelous wonders of books and dust and corporate-but-not bookstores. His hair is green not really but blue and green pirate green, red bandanna is he a pirate? asks the little girl with pigtails and chocolate snot embarrassed mother shoo be nice that's rude tugging hand with look of so sorry, she's five, not smart enough yet, please forgive and Neal with open half-grin smiling not really there but almost, not speaking but almost, not accepting or forgiving or out-loud speaking but just shelving, shelving, shelving.:thumb343111730:
And when I stretch across open sparkle-sparkle tile mall floor (checked with gum and scuffed tile and not-allowed skateboards) Neal looks up, somewhat barely, face open innocent quiet not-there. I ask applications? Are you hiring? because I need a job but
fumesthe talk
of my
heart
unfurls,
wisps
of smoke
we should celebratei.
i tried to think of pain as a flower,
first it blossoms
and then
it wilts away.
but i won't let myself disappear
along with it,
i won't
give you that.
(it's not the agony that makes
me scream, it's the flavor).
ii.
and you whispered softly
"i'll rip your heart out and replace it
with a song,
it's christmas soon, and
we should celebrate".
you've always used my scars
as a calendar,
as a way to remind yourself
"today is tuesday
and i still exist".
iii.
(it's morning now because
i can see
the sunlight
through my eyelids
and imagine
a bright summer day,
the flowers are
beautiful,
so
damn
beautiful).
i want to tell youimagine a world without gender
a world where we are not confined
to the arbitrary interpretations of
an inexact biology. imagine we could
rise above the places
below our waists, reside instead in
graceful hands, in angled cheekbones
in some deeper conception than this
skewed perception of you.
I strip myself bare of unforgiving flesh,
squinting behind dim caverns of girl parts--
what are girl parts? all we have are beating
hearts.
I sit inside this trembling body, shoulder
to hunched shoulder,
stacks of bones too unsure
to be brave enough to tell you that
my gender will never fit on the plastic sign
above a bathroom door.
and I've never filled out a single
form where they didn't ask me for
me to choose one or the other,
sister or brother, father or
mother, i want to tell you but
I'm slipping between sidewalk cracks
walking down the street hearing wolf whistles and
I want to tell you please don't read between
the lines, erase the goddamn
lines, this has nothing to do with
lines.
and I w
Bokeh.These days, Black Friday really lasts a week
but I haven't bothered to write out a list--
You cannot find the things I want in a store.
The sound of a rejected embrace
is the same as the shatter of a broken bulb
or a house burning down on Christmas morning.
There is a name for the way
strings of holiday lights blur out of focus
when you watch someone you love walk away.
Winter 2012 Haiku Set12-6
cats in the hall
shifting to find
the last afternoon light
12-7
all day the old cat
follows a spot of sun
down the hall
12-8
all my raked leaves
now a pile
at the back door
12-10
cold wind
street empty
a faceless penny
12-12
a cat's balance-
if you stop petting me,
I'll fall
12/21
rusted clouds
seventy miles per hour
towards the coming dawn
PlowIt's finally snowing again,:thumb317435803:
blankets of peace falling
with a freshness that lacks innocence.
Nearly forgotten, they're here as expected,
clearing the streets,
trying to push aside all the worry
that makes things unsafe, but
the steel mouth askew grates against my heart;
its thick bass scrape pushing more than piles of white aside,
it pushes my blood aside too,
piling it up in the corner of this pumping vessel that falters,
ice-caked and bitten, stiffened,
and keeps faltering,
again,
and again,
and again,
until the air is silent
and the street no longer shivers in torture.
The only evidence is the blanket of white
that keeps falling,
like fluffy stuffing that's been yanked out.
All is silent,
except the fond memories that peel away
from my heart in little shreds,
and the plows, scraping fresh wounds again.
--
1/20/2012, 1/22/2012
Copyright © 2012 Jen Fowler
All Rights Reserved
Features by thorns
The Reaper's LootOf war, of war this day I write,
Of battle and blood that is shed in the night,
Of cries and screams, of blood and pain,
I wish this night to become day's light.
The pain, the pain of the killing pursuit,
The scars etched upon berserker brutes,
The hate and fear of fire and lead,
I see the fruit of the reaper's loot.
Oh fire, oh fire and destruction's start,
Oh copper and lead seeking the foes' hearts,
Oh flesh and bone you sought to rend,
And as their souls depart,
The devil sees your new art.
The Animal(Howl into my ear;:thumb321960869:
give me your claws.
I want the animal in you;
in you I shall nest.)
Take your clothes off, take them off for me.
Let me see the scars and the marks,
those dark moles and faint sun spots.
I want to memorize the way your fur grows.
I want to tickle my cheeks with your goose bumps.
Let me count the bruises and the cuts.
I'll bless them with names;
I'll lick away the blood stains.
We can lie skin to skin for days.
I have enough kisses for your brows and lashes,
for nails, teeth and toes, for thighs and knees;
in your curves and dents I'll nuzzle my nose.
Let me see your skin dance.
Through and around; your every breath performs,
through and around, an ancient holy chant.
I don't want your dreams; forget the ifs and the maybes.
All those regrets you carry are nothing but sad stories.
You don't have to utter a single word;
your body holds all the promises.
Don't tell me any secrets, hold your confessions;
just take your clothes off, take them off for me.
© 2012 melekelif
By Fifty,I'll publish or perish;:thumb275055103:
find someone to cherish;
move someplace phenomenal;
display an abdominal
physique to inspire,
which I shall acquire!
. . . Or perhaps, just retire.
The PullWhen I was younger, someone showed me a video game—too weird for me, but it made her laugh, and she was pretty. You played as this little guy with a squishy hammer for a head, and you rolled a sticky ball around in front of you. As you rolled it, things got stuck until the ball was gigantic. And then... I don't know. I don't remember the point of the game, nor do I remember the name.
But that image comes back to me every time I am anxious. I am that little person running around, pushing a ball, and things stick to it. Only they aren't cows or trees or parts of buildings: they are things that make me nervous. The attention of people. My sparse resume. The way I can never look someone in the eye when we first meet.
Oh. And I don't have a squishy hammer for a head.
Regardless, today is like that. I've talked to too many people and some weird man had told me he was my father and my mother was on the back of a book with a different name but the same damn face.
While I was walking home,
Silencio"¡Pero no dije nada!":thumb140166320:
"Mi punto."
SwallowI swallowed stones for a girl once,
tethered a daughter to my arm,
raised her with my own hands,
and pulsed so much blood
through the wire
it became a vein.
Eventually I fell,
slammed to the floor,
like a marionette savagely thrown
against a wall.
My guts were full,
of sediment and
my stomach swelled too much.
I breathed dust and ants,
swallowed as much as I was able,
and tried to get up
with my daughter in tow.
Clumsily falling back over,
with bruised hands and
forced, rough, breathing,
I felt tension
from the other side.
The line pulled taut and hard
and dragged me from its end
across so many splintering boards
I bled from my fingers trying
to fight it.
Until,
it frayed and snapped.
Admittedly, I cried for it
and I shoveled debris and carted blood
swearing the whole time
I'd never swallow stones for a girl
again.
Then I met you.
Gnome Noir "I did it for the money and I did it for the girl.
Well, I didn't get the money – and I didn't get the girl."
:: Walter Neff - Double Indemnity
So I point the flintlock at the guy – and that's no easy thing, big musket like that on a little gnome like me – and I peer down the sight. Not many people know what it's like to stare at a man through a glass. But in those sacred moments, the whole world takes a breath and it's just you and him. I line up the shot, and I think about the girl, and--
What? That is the start. What do you want, Sheriff, my life story?
Alright, well, I'm Gniles Brody the Third – that's GNILES, silent 'g'. G-N-I-L-E-S. Your boys over there in the robes got that? I'm a Risk management clerk. You've heard of Royal Gnomic Treasury, right? Well, that's me and the guys. You got a risk, we cover your back for a modest sum. We're like alchemists - 'cept we turn gold into more gold.
What? This IS the interesting bit! You have any
Whale Songs of the PacificListen, the girls swallowed by whales are the ones that grow up lucky.
Listen, no one will warn you about the little boys with the magpie eyes and the fists swinging splinters of glass. No one will warn you that their smiles are sweeter than their words are sweeter than their souls are sweeter than their intentions. No one will warn you of the sheer weight of the world.
Listen, sometimes girls are fragile. Sometimes girls are frothy. Sometimes girls let boys nuzzle "I love you"s into their necks and sometimes girls drink the wine of believing them.
Listen, sometimes the boys really are sweet, and little girls' tart puckered mouths can't taste the difference.
Listen, writers are the ones that drip fishhooks down their throats to coax out their hearts. Writers are the ones who fling those heart-hooks into the sea even if they have a message but not a bottle. Listen, sometimes fish swallow them. Some of those fish sink to the bottom of the ocean with the weight of the world in those heart
windstorms and labworkafflatus, inflatus, my morning globe,
as lithe as your impermanence.
and home! dread homes! are rabbit dugs,
spoonholed piles of mexican brick
where nothing ever touches down,
nothing here alive receives
the plains’ poor offering of gypsy light,
the ugly wind that meets the mudline.
[metaphors]
1. a mottled fence
2. and how these storms hold faceless teeth
that slat their eyes through butter-wood
then purge their guts on wintered florets
4. some freshly headless nativities,
their polyethylene skirts upturned
from violent sacks
5. and knowing i’m a souless
speck
i lick at what is manifest
beneath your hair
each poison tab
a colour
acid
fire
or lake
a brothel
and religious studies
i know, i know you never mean
to murder
or complete
me
but do not say “live for yourself”.
i’ve come online to see the god
that came before me.
we are so poorly married
like bookend spines of Plath and Hughes
up on the shelf
are somehow
synon
It's never too lateYou will have been dead fifteen years tomorrow,
and yet not once have I visited your grave.
I was always busy; there was always time
to see you, to make amends. And yet, I feel
it's all a sham. I could make time, but I fear
the truth. It's easier to believe my lies.
If I went, I'd see your plot, see how you lie
untroubled, beneath the soil. Your tomorrows
ended many yesterdays ago. No fears
to face, no debts to pay. No decisions grave
to weigh your brow. Not like your son. How I feel
the heaviness of this life. There's too much time
and not enough. Lives end every day. It's time
to stop hiding from the pain. My future lies
along a path you've helped me walk. I can feel
your touch in everything I do. Tomorrow
is too late, sometimes. It shall not be graved
into history that I gave into fear.
For too long I feel I've lived a life of fear,
of caution, of safety, and, and yet such times
I had. Oh dad, you'd be turning in your grave
if you saw the choices that I made that lie
behind
Candy at a FuneralIn the face of bitterness
I have mastered sweetness.
By the end of this day I will have calculated
exact measurements of cream
to wipe clean the face of gravestones.
I will have learned to soothe the aching
of windswept hearts,
to break open on my part
like a shell of chocolate
quivering open, full of cream.
I will have learned to love grief
as dearly as my own dream.
At the end of my childhood -my dream-
of owning a candy store:
a sweet shop, a bakery….
specializing in the art of the glazed.
The wedding cakes, the brick tarts,
memory of a birthday, of candles, happy catering
for happy occasions of all kinds…
-my dream-
will grow up with time,
and like the end of the day, seeing the look o
Suggested by the following…
Postmorteum, xlntwtch, trembling-knees, reveur-artiste, UnspecifiedUnknown, donboscoe, UnseenPoet, ikazon. LiliWrites, fyoot, LadyofGaerdon, doughboycafe, ShadowedAcolyte, Storyteller21, AzizrianDaoXrak, YogaTeacher, vespera, 0hgravity, kitvor, OfOneSoul, Lucy-Merriman, isthisthingstillon,
FAQ
FAQ #61: What is a Daily Deviation?
FAQ #18: Who selects Daily Deviations and how are they chosen?
FAQ #873: What do I do when I disapprove of a Daily Deviation feature?
