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Daily Deviation
June 16, 2005
If a Lion Could Speak by *boundlessgravity provides us with a tantalizing and haunting narrative of examination, and packs an ending that is as clever as they come.
Featured by ndifference
Suggested by somedrunkblackspoon
Literature Text
The world churns this body,
has been my whitish ipecac,
like a big tongue in the gut,
has made me hurtle words.
I am a refinery, a plant that shits beauty.
I’m tired and frightened, that is depression,
I’ve said it before. Nothing is everything is love,
and no great love for the man'inventing.
Touch me off, go back to the aether,
monkey fist, half-hitch, noose.
Love is a sandpaper, it smooths corners,
it bevels edges, it makes dust of us,
finally we go back to the wind.
Every ribcage is a ladder with rungs
of bone. I’m glad I’m thin
so I can count how high I have to go.
*
On the hunt, the devil grass hurts
my eyes. I’d rather sleep,
I’d rather yawn my children into petted being.
The thousand frights between
my lips have made such games
of ivory shaking in the voice of earth.
Down at the roots is the only
place to make sense of it all,
in the dark that has always been blind.
The light is confusing, exposing too much,
it hurts my slit slit eyes, I should keep this mouth shut,
I know better than to speak with sounded words.
Children, as you test your voices bellow
to the sun but listen after,
living listen prior.
Every ladder is a ribcage with handles
that fit like weapons against your lungs and heart;
I amount body to the fall, to a fable named silence.
*
Fallen into a cart of apples,
bright and delicious, my option
is to eat my passage out. It’s lonely in the golden fruit.
I wish you were here to share my sickness and my empty hunger.
If a lion could speak,
you would not understand him.
has been my whitish ipecac,
like a big tongue in the gut,
has made me hurtle words.
I am a refinery, a plant that shits beauty.
I’m tired and frightened, that is depression,
I’ve said it before. Nothing is everything is love,
and no great love for the man'inventing.
Touch me off, go back to the aether,
monkey fist, half-hitch, noose.
Love is a sandpaper, it smooths corners,
it bevels edges, it makes dust of us,
finally we go back to the wind.
Every ribcage is a ladder with rungs
of bone. I’m glad I’m thin
so I can count how high I have to go.
*
On the hunt, the devil grass hurts
my eyes. I’d rather sleep,
I’d rather yawn my children into petted being.
The thousand frights between
my lips have made such games
of ivory shaking in the voice of earth.
Down at the roots is the only
place to make sense of it all,
in the dark that has always been blind.
The light is confusing, exposing too much,
it hurts my slit slit eyes, I should keep this mouth shut,
I know better than to speak with sounded words.
Children, as you test your voices bellow
to the sun but listen after,
living listen prior.
Every ladder is a ribcage with handles
that fit like weapons against your lungs and heart;
I amount body to the fall, to a fable named silence.
*
Fallen into a cart of apples,
bright and delicious, my option
is to eat my passage out. It’s lonely in the golden fruit.
I wish you were here to share my sickness and my empty hunger.
If a lion could speak,
you would not understand him.
Literature
Expecting
Expecting
three houses down,
the neighbor boy's soft
spot has fused together
too soon. now his brain has no
room to grow.
I cannot allow my mind to dwell
the daughter of a guy I work with
has Down syndrome,
an immortal
toddler. her nose runs; she watches
cartoons. they have a special
guard
on the front doorknob.
I cannot allow my mind to dwell
my half-brother's adopted daughter
was born
with spina bifida. she wears special
braces on her ankles
to help her walk. she suffers
operation after
operation, but
the doctors are certain: one day the cord
will simply
stretch
too
taut.
I cannot allow my mind
our first was born
Literature
Reverie
I.
They say every woman is a piece of the moon,
but I want the sun.
Dear Apollo, explain to me why you gave up
clear mornings for the shadowy future.
And I'll make you wish you hadn't burned a time before.
Because he's still sleeping, turned towards the window,
the thick blinds cracking with sunlight in the early dawn.
The navy sheets his royal dress, the rays his glory crown.
I wake up next to a god on Sunday morning,
hands still dirty from the night before.
II.
But when I sleep, I dream of rhyming big words
Building them on top of each other, letting it touch the sky.
I rub up against them once in awhile to test their stren
Literature
When Your Heart Stops Beating
When Your Heart Stops Beating
My first thought is that she pronounced his last name wrong.
My second is that she's lying.
~
When you think of a person, a tiny file of memory opens in your brain, containing everything you know about them. All the good memories you've made, stupid jokes that have been laughed at, every tear that you may have shed thinking about him or her, it's all in there. Over time, that folder gets bigger and bigger, but a few papers and video clips inside have bright post-it flags on them. Those are the ones that
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"If a lion could speak, we would not understand him."
-Wittgenstein
Draft update: 12.22.06
-Wittgenstein
Draft update: 12.22.06
© 2005 - 2024 creightonwrites
Comments87
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Have I really never commented on this?
I first read this poem the day it got a DD - over a decade ago.
It really, really stuck with me and continues to be my favourite writing.
I'm so glad I can keep coming back to read it again, several deviantART accounts later.
I first read this poem the day it got a DD - over a decade ago.
It really, really stuck with me and continues to be my favourite writing.
I'm so glad I can keep coming back to read it again, several deviantART accounts later.