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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
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
Literature
Shattered
She remembers it now; there’s blood (oh yes she can remember the blood thick and red and sticky and dead) and pain (it’s what she is made of now what she will be) and the feeling of something inside her mind snapping like a guitar string (it’s a musical sound almost pretty she takes care of it and remembers the sound of unrepairable) shattering and bleeding and disappearing in tiny supernovas that leave behind a strange urge to smile and the icy knowledge that this is what she is; shattered.
She smiles into the darkness, eyes open but unable to see (they took care of that they did), arms wrapped around her torso and legs (a
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