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Literature Text
cigarette in hand,
I smoke like a broken stove,
waiting for cancer
I smoke like a broken stove,
waiting for cancer
Literature
dear.
d,
I miss the cigarette smoke, hanging in the air like thick curtains, making us coughhackchoke until we were weak.
I remember how youd hold me almost too close and tell me that you would never leave, that God himself couldnt force you away from me. I just grinned and blasted rock music, inviting the rhythm to jolt through our veins and put our pulse back on track.
beat. beat. beat.
the music couldnt save you the day God did come, when your hearts rhythm died and the throbbing in your chest slowed.
(knowing you, the admission into heaven wasnt exactly an easy one, but if there is a heaven, I know youd be the
Literature
Dendrophoroi
white cotton dress
and apricot
sash
bringer of fencebirds,
coaxer of beetles and
hardly more
than a child
in your
emperor
eyes;
rosen blush the
product of
Renoir's
brush
a Ptolemaic stare
to make wary
those never
destined
for portraits
on canvas
or coins
to think that
she is
serenaded
so,
that she has a
nightingale
her
own
to realise,
chastened,
you're a tree
that only
grows
in
Sicily.
Literature
introspect
do you remember the rainy evening
when you showed me the architecture
of your heart?
columns of dead languages
and old money, ivy strangling
the crumbling stone:
quelle allure!
I had quite despaired
of ever seeing such a place, but you
forced open the wrought-iron gates
and allowed me to take over—
modernity manifest
in my hesitating touch.
I crept over the courtyards
like some brilliant, beautiful
bed of weeds.
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or life,
or love,
or just
cancer.
or love,
or just
cancer.
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