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Literature Text
43rd chorus
cummings,
I see it now, my man,
I see it;
the beauty behind dis
order dis
array dis away
dat
away
there's always (this place!)
and
th
is
pl
ac
e!
this finely tuned (electric rise
of a begging body's frail-
fuzz to rising epiphany)
weaponry
aimed from.tattoos.to.crayons.at.the.heart
you've chiseled away
their gods their coffin-walls their fixed form attire their machines
they're machines
but-you-and-now-
me;
(here!)
to show them
(my)them.
cummings,
I see it now, my man,
I see it;
the beauty behind dis
order dis
array dis away
dat
away
there's always (this place!)
and
th
is
pl
ac
e!
this finely tuned (electric rise
of a begging body's frail-
fuzz to rising epiphany)
weaponry
aimed from.tattoos.to.crayons.at.the.heart
you've chiseled away
their gods their coffin-walls their fixed form attire their machines
they're machines
but-you-and-now-
me;
(here!)
to show them
(my)them.
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Literature
aches
my body twitches chest cracks cracks
eyes water wrists rolls shoulders fall in tense up
please is not enough
you will not understand any better than i do
why this place smashes a hole under my ribs every passing day
bars my arms in
and nothing is enough but
leaving
is impossible
Literature
Softening of Armor
There was a time of great sickness-
bare bones starving out the demons
and building fragile frameworks
to withstand the stress of change.
There were doubts and defenses…
fear and then thunder-
crashing moments of shared vibration.
The epic push and pull,
full silence followed by
some sweet surrender,
affirmations of realness,
the softening of armor,
the slow, sinking sensation
of accepting a beautiful truth
whose solace outweighed trepidation.
A greatness to vanquish
all previous transgressions-
the abstruse condition of falling in love.
© M.Pimentel 2015
Literature
Don't break
Pause.
A deep breath and a sip of liquor
makes a manual that
tells you how to achieve
nothing.
A break to break down your thinking.
A chance to pick apart every
brick of ours
and inspect it so that we know
every one
is made of dust.
But Homes can be made of mud
so you spit
until your lips crack
and you stir everything together,
hoping you have enough in you
to maybe make
a doorway
that will lead somewhere else.
Suggested Collections
sometimes I just breath his air.
© 2009 - 2024 oldest-boy
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yes.