Sidonia

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Literature

A Pushkin Sonnet

The Empty-Handed Man Explains Not forgot, I think it's bogus - chem-trails wafted from the groin perform hormonal hocus-pocus, juxtaposing 'brain' with 'loin'. Then, swift to lose its jizz-ness, romance knuckles down to business: passion vowed on bended knee replaced by kids, the SUV, mortgage dues and renovations. What about idyllic smut? Sure, the urge may linger - but who's got time, or inclination? Hence (and wise to keep in mind), the Romans stoned St. Valentine.

Poetry and Prose.

29 deviations

A Pushkin Sonnet by salshep, literature

Literature

A Pushkin Sonnet

Wet Monday by salshep, literature

Literature

Wet Monday

The clouds are solemn, sky-hobos down to wander the city drunk in frowns and loose, grey trousers. We appear to be lost in newsreel salvaged from the second World War: mechanical suits, umbrellas flickering in and out. Drear-drear-drear, cars shout in captions of gutter water and blue smoke. Where are we going. The ones with beards dig their fingers in and scratch. We don't know. Does it matter. Isn't there a place down the street. The Irish fire. The fuggy wool. Four pints of dark. Salt and vinegar crisps. Two girls in red lipstick, kissing in a booth at the back.

Written Love by Visitere, literature

Literature

Written Love

Italic represents the inner depths of our emotions, an endless well of truth. Within lies the rawest image of the self, the naked reality of vulnerability, doubt and discovery. Will I ever find love? Am I destined to be alone forever? It also depicts instant sparks of thought, blurted words mute to the world. She’s cute! I wonder if she could ever like someone like me. Did she just smile back at me? Was she being polite, or…? Bold equals bravery, chance and gamble; the lion heart in which shaky words express daring suggestions, challenging the fate of solitude. “Want to go for a coffee sometime?” “Can I c

They Would Be Dead Anyway by Colornote, literature

Literature

They Would Be Dead Anyway

Once there was a woman named Hannah Born in Boston in 1910 While in Chicago there lived Sarah Also born in 1910. For Hannah, a string of tragedies: Two children died young, her husband left. Destitute, sick of calamity, It's what you'd expect: an early death. Sarah married late, but into wealth Produced four children, eager and smart. She herself, the pinnacle of health, Lived to be ninety, gave millions to art. What's the point of two such different women They'd both be dead by now regardless. Exactly, you've posed the real question, Does it matter, or just a point of interest? Is there still tragedy if they'd both Be dead b

d e a r j - by wingedaccolade, literature

Literature

d e a r j -

or requiem for a boy i am typing this to you on a notepad. the letters are spaced and even, and there are no imperfections. they are simple and numb and the line moves as you type and that is okay; i don't have to see what i just typed. i'm only going to chop it up later. no regrets. i am writing this to you to tell you that i will be your boy. even though i am your her, i will be your his too. it is much more possessive. his implies ownership. her is just an object. you are just an object to him. but to me, you are and you are not. i am your boy. i will cuddle when it is appropriate, and be standoffish on occasio

Witches by salshep, literature

Literature

Witches

Witches So you thought we were gone when our blackened bones had burned to coals and you'd washed our ash from the back of your throat. When you exhale into the face of your wife, does she smell us? Lately at night, familiar as cats, we've taken to creeping about your dark home reeking of bonfires, empty-headed pumpkins, poppets of wormwood and rue. In dream you consume us, come morning, you dare not pass a hedge or linger where three roads meet. We are slowly collecting your fluids and fallen hair, diffusing our dust into all of your meals. Soon we'll leach like salt from your skin, fly on specks of spittle, out of your

this one's four you three two by choirsoftheheavens, literature

Literature

this one's four you three two

her name, if i remember correctly, was laura, melissa and purple. picture this; a girl stays far away from the swing, too scared to touch the sky and follow in the footsteps of wax-winged men. her mammy said the branch would give in. her friend crowns the tree with whispered words, and tells the petrified bark never to give up on itself. they learn how to spell, fumbling fingers holding fat crayons in fists, racing each oh-tee-her, el-ih-ay-ar-ning to-get-her. it doesn't matter to them that they don't get full marks even though "l-e-a-r-anne" and "d-e-c-laura-t-i-o-n" are clearly wrong. they are four and nothing's stopping them from livin

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