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Literature Text
God is a playwright.
He sits in the back row
of velvet seats and claps
160 bpm after every act.
He closes his eyes when
the audience laughs together,
cries together.
His play is very good,
and He knows this.
After the show,
they always ask,
“How did you make
the characters so
vulnerable? So
honest? So real?”
He shrugs in his tweed
jacket with elbow pads,
frowns slightly, says,
“The characters got away from me.
I did not make them this way.”
He sits in the back row
of velvet seats and claps
160 bpm after every act.
He closes his eyes when
the audience laughs together,
cries together.
His play is very good,
and He knows this.
After the show,
they always ask,
“How did you make
the characters so
vulnerable? So
honest? So real?”
He shrugs in his tweed
jacket with elbow pads,
frowns slightly, says,
“The characters got away from me.
I did not make them this way.”
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Literature
The Son, the Father, and Whatever is Holy
Do you ever stop to think about those
Old, old stories bound in myriad cantos?
The kind that are all in iambs and Latin
Or Italian – the language of a world in the grip
Of a renaissance that is seeping drip by drip
Into a darkened age, like so much lantern oil.
I do, but for purely selfish reasons –
I think of them as balm for lesions
That keep popping up in my mind.
Lesions, mind you, that are not literal –
They are but the inlets in the littoral
Region of my morbid thoughts.
When the inlets get flooded, I build leather
Boats to keep myself afloat. Whether
I construct them well is up to interpretation.
I cling to the ol
Literature
what a bible is worth in a bible belt town
today it rained hard enough that the colors
of the street lights leaked out onto the road,
puddles of red pooling on the concrete
like blood getting washed away from
the battlefield. sometimes pain is fleeting.
sometimes it lasts forever. i know first hand that
humans have never done good things
with their hands, we keep our guiltiest sins etched
in the grooves of our palms. there is no absolution
for the calluses on our fingers, no matter how many
times we turn the rosary beads.
i almost crashed the car thinking about the way you were
enjoying the sun at the same time i couldn’t see
anything more than a faint streak of white
in the
Literature
plague-bodied
i am a body of rat bones,
a post-panic attack,
(muscle) memory to
fester - the travesty
& specter, spectacle
in gold boots, bloody nose,
cut-throat.
& don't you
dare touch me;
i am eight months into dying.
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Inspired by SilverInkblot's series called "God does ordinary things". This has been in my head for a year now, and I have finally written it.
© 2014 - 2024 saltwaterlungs
Comments45
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Interesting ideas here. I like it!