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Literature
Icarus
O Icarus, why do you fly so high?
He stretches,
Molten wings, devastating propulsion
Gilded toes and anointed brow
A scripted flight,
And the christening: I am Icarus, I shall fly.
A bit further,
Finger-whorls gripping claws
At the fabric of the ozone,
At the gravity that envelopes him
A warm blanket against the chill of the atmosphere.
The sun above,
A trinket for him to toy with,
His father below calling warnings,
Oh Icarus, you fly too high!
His ears are full of wax.
The crowd below
Sings like an ocean
But Icarus drowns among the stars.
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Literature
Future Seeing
I believed that I was a musician,
my bow an extension of my arm, my
carefully placed fingers wrapped in an abusive relationship
with the weighted end,
blisters like kisses that fade into calluses.
I believed that I was a writer,
scoffed at typing, preferred
a pencil held in my pianist's fingers,
the needle point sketching pictures
across heart strings and soundscapes.
I believed in believing, in
structure, in iambic planning,
structured poetry, prose in a box.
I no longer believe that
I have a form.
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Literature
Simplicity
An algebraic universe, she sits
devising formulae for each inhale
one solution per bold variable,
and in the center—a pomegranate.
Enveloped by that organized chaos,
seeds await within that warm, dark cavern
A marriage gone to ruin, secret smiles
men given up for lent, laughter, lipstick.
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Literature
Red Earth
Kiss me hard because this could be
(Forever, never, ever)
The last of our hit and run consistency,
Our sudden impassioned lunacy,
My last desperate attempt
to keep myself from falling or flying, because
it’s such a long way down.
  Swathed in corn-flower jealousy, my hands are to my ears
eyes shut against the stars and the sky and you.
I can’t ignore these itching wingtips forever,
but it’s such a long way down,
it’s such a long way down.
(When was the last time an empty sky caught you?)
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Literature
37
I say that my lucky number is thirty-seven, because at some stupid
carnival thing in middle school, there was this betting game (little gamblers and their parents, go automated horse go, win win win) and I chose the one with thirty-seven on its painted-on saddle, and I won 11 tickets.
(When people would ask what my lucky number was, I'd say seven, take away the three in the tens place, because a real lucky number is secret. The earth was built in seven days, I'm told, and that seven is a good lucky number. But it's not mine.)
Or maybe it was because my mother wanted me to play soccer. When the uniforms were handed out, I asked for number one, because who doesn't want to be number one? But it was already taken, said the coach, just pick one. I grabbed one, number thirty-seven, and crumpled it into a ball. I would never be number one.
Behind the batting cage, Number One asked me if I knew what an indian rope burn was. No, I said, no. She showed me, and it hurt, and I didn't cry. I didn't
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Literature
Inspiration
I shouldn't read poetry when I'm away from you.
When I'm with you, I can sit by your computer chair,
put my cheek against your thigh until you put a hand on my head,
saying to me that you will be just a minute, you have no attention for speech,
that you are in crisis, conflict,
dying--no, no, not you. There's the inevitable triumph,
and you swivel your chair to face me, open your arms.
"What's wrong, hun?"
But I can't tell you. I'm too busy
burying myself in the cloth of your shirt, breathing you in, memorizing-
untangling the pretty words that inspiration has burned into me.
I'm crying, a little, shaking at the tangled web that was once articulated words and sentences and paragraphs or stanzas or something.
(Or maybe I never had words at all, only unspeakable emotions that I cannot convey, that invade my still-beating heart and built fortresses until my chest is too small, and there's no more room, and I might go in and fight them if only I had the means.)
"Nothing, nothing. I'm just
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Literature
Love story to an apartment
Four  walls, blank but tidy, shuffling their feet behind radiators, bookcases, and everything that made up the minute details of a life barely explored: a quiet existence for anybody to live in, bundled away in the finest silk sheets.  Oh, you have never seen such sheets as these: they are nothing more than liquid cloth, pooling at every curve and dip, they are warm in cold, they are cool in unbearable heat, and they belong solely to one life, unshared. They selfishly cling to the cold sweat of a million bad dreams.
The view isn’t much. Filthy cracked bricks groan underneath the weight of all they’ve seen, their once chipper and hand-roughening faces growing weary, greasy, black, burnt out, until with a final sigh, they begin to crumble. The glass is cold against warm whorls of skin, a million greasy nose prints vying for the space, the opportunity to find their greasy way back to the warmth of the pores from whence they came. Curious fingers come away dir
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Literature
Highway Music
It was always more your song than mine, you know.  It would come on the radio, and you would crank the volume and open the windows of the car, and sing at the top of your lungs. The music would wash over both of us, become an ingrained part of us. We'd find the closest highway, and I'd floor it, and you'd sing and sing, the wind whipping colour into your cheeks and miniature snarls into your hair.  You'd close your eyes, and I'd feel an irrational stab of jealousy.  Imagine that, being jealous of a song!  But I thought that maybe, if you listened really closely, that your heart would be keeping time; that the words would be written on the insides of your eyelids.  I haven't heard that song since you left, and I sometimes wonder if you took it with you.
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Literature
Barbed Words
Taste that metallic tang,
that warm, bitter blood
pooling upon your wounded lip?
Soon, soon,
that
blood
will
be
mine.
Watch your words, boy.
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Mature content
The Scummit :iconsursumalucinor:SursumAlucinor 1 0
Literature
Mirror, Mirror
Eyes warm, questioning
Telling absofuckinglutely nothing
Or nothing useful, anyway.
Look, and
Look again.
Is that me?
Or is this my brain
acting as some sort of authoritative parasite dictator
bossing my body parts around?
Like in that one cartoon—what was it called?
The one that was combined with Billy & Mandy
Before it became its own
show.
Evil Con Carne.
Keep breathing, flesh puppet.
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Mature content
Hello :iconsursumalucinor:SursumAlucinor 0 0
Literature
An Orange Poem
Matching orange shirts,
don't explain them, let
them wonder. We look
like a married couple,
eating our Chinese food,
going dutch; rock, paper, scissors,
to aliens,
and curling up together
to watch bad tv shows
late into the night.
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Literature
I can't wait to see you.
I can’t wait to see you,
beautiful girl,
happy and healthy
and most of all,
next to me
singing Rocky Horror at the top of our lungs
eating icecream
(without worrying)
a blanket around both of our
shoulders:
a shield against the world
keeping you
and me
safe.
Be well, sweetheart.
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Literature
A Flame
A flame
is a sloppy eater
slurping oxygen
consuming,
consuming,
until there is nothing left
except its waste:
a black carbon
nirvana.
Release your material self into the blaze,
or be likewise devoured
for life is not sacred to the hungry inferno
who greedily crackles and rages for
more,
more,
more,
more.
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Literature
The Barrier
A sea of fallen stars
twinkling bitterly, charmingly,
in their sometimes tidy rows,
sometimes not,
behind the cold concrete.
These scatter-plotted lights
glimmer at their smudged
and glossy twins,
who somehow seem twice
as bright.
The barrier is unmoving,
sturdy,
while the stars on one side of it
beckon, come swim with us,
and the stars on the other murmur uneasily
and remind me that I
can’t stop here.
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Literature
And Lay as Though She Smiled
I died of cholera in the third grade. My best friend Alice Hathaway presided over my funeral.
Lying in the school soccer field, holding a bouquet of dandelions, my cheeks rubbed with pollen, yellow and sickly, I asked Alice to give my eulogy.
"What?"
Neither of us had ever gone to a funeral, but somehow I knew more.
"My eulogy. Say nice things about me. Since I'm dead."
She hesitated. "Elaine was really nice. I wish she hadn't died. And I hope she goes to Heaven."
I waited.
"Are you done?"
"Uhuh. Amen."
"Okay, now's when you bury me."
Alice ripped grass from the field and poured it over me. I smiled as it fell into my mouth.
"Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust," I chanted.
***
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SursumAlucinor
Claire
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
Current Residence: Somewhere between here and there.
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Favourite cartoon character: Hannelore. <3
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:iconmakeshiftwings30:
makeshiftwings30 Featured By Owner Dec 22, 2011  Hobbyist Artisan Crafter
thanks for the watch!
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ponymonster Featured By Owner Sep 5, 2011
hey, thanks so much for the watch!! :hug: <33
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Jackiekie Featured By Owner Aug 21, 2011   Artisan Crafter
Thanks for the watch! :dance:
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callerofcrows Featured By Owner Aug 8, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the fave!
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Jackiekie Featured By Owner Jul 23, 2011   Artisan Crafter
Thanks for the fave! :D
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DieZori Featured By Owner Apr 1, 2011  Professional
Thanks for the watch :heart:
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Sobuharten Featured By Owner Mar 7, 2011  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the watch!
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Jehkoba Featured By Owner Dec 13, 2010
Kehehe, glad you liked it. :P
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HYBRiDsunshIne Featured By Owner Apr 27, 2010
Thank you sooo much for the :+fav:! :3
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Jehkoba Featured By Owner Mar 19, 2010
Teehee, thank'ee for the +Fave. :heart:
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