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Literature Text
Und wir scheitern immer schöner.
All das Denken macht mich krank.
Gedanken an dich,
Gedanken an mich,
für immer in meinem Kopf.
Kannn es nicht sagen,
nicht schreiben,
denn wasimmer es ist,
sie hören es.
Also Mund halten,
Augen und Ohren zu.
Nett sein,
hübsch aussehen.
Und wir scheitern
immer schöner.
All das Denken macht mich krank.
Gedanken an dich,
Gedanken an mich,
für immer in meinem Kopf.
Kannn es nicht sagen,
nicht schreiben,
denn wasimmer es ist,
sie hören es.
Also Mund halten,
Augen und Ohren zu.
Nett sein,
hübsch aussehen.
Und wir scheitern
immer schöner.
Literature
Ceteris Paribus
In an eon
You and I will greet the choate moon
Surrounded by her fairy dogs
warrior wolves and magnetic fox tails
who howl some foretelling tune
decoded only by the whistling winds
within my once listless room
I nip your Adam's apple by my Cupid's bow
we are a perfect art, a Sistine Michelangelo
We are stomata of the umpteen,
swimming in each other's dulcet drippings
of halved and pitted French tongues and ears
Let the years pass in this gentle deaf-muteness
where Ceteris Paribus
In this, Hallowed and His Seraphims know
how in the glow of one night tide
the firmament of all
folded into my limitless room
You and I part in sweet sorrow
t
Literature
Something's Wrong
I don't cut myself anymore. I haven't since last summer, when the sun was so blindingly bright it perforated through my curtains and stained my eyes.
The cuts were on one forearm, deep and red and angry, all the way from elbow to wrist. I'd sometimes leave the flesh exposed, and watched as curious eyes flickered from my face to arm as we spoke. No one ever asked.
When the arm was too sore to slice with scissors I'd scrape away at the paint and plaster on my walls. I'd carve deep shapes and lines like limbs from a tree, reaching out over my head and clutching at the window.
The walls are painted deep purple now. I sat for hours and filled i
Literature
Staring into Space
In between 60's and 70's rock, a radio host speaks
In a boistrous voice deep and reassuring, and a tone quiet and expressive
He tells of artists and albums, as I look out the window, out into space.
Into the dark blue speckled with stars.
I'm nine, or eight. My father is driving us home, and the scenery is a desert
vacant, and pure. Undisturbed, but for the humming of our engine and soft background music.
I'm pressed against the window, or upside down facing the stars. I can't really tell.
I'm visioning spaceships, seeing radio signals, hearing vacum.
We've been visting my grandparents. They've been living in the desert city for 40 years
The
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