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Literature Text
I saw it in a shop, I barely remember what I was doing there now. It was one of those shops full of useless odds and ends, knick-knacks, good-looking junk. I think I was shopping for an aunt, letting my gaze sweep across the tacky wares in the hope of spotting something inspirational. There it was, in a crowded display cabinet in the back corner of the shop. A glass teardrop.
It wasn't one of those cheap pieces of glass on string, nor a faceted crystal teardrop. It was suspended inside another block of glass somehow, with other shafts and angles intercepting it, but not splitting it or spoiling it. I stared at it for countless minutes trying to work out if it was glass and air, cracked glass, sheets of glass or some other clever technique. The light poured around it, bright and dark, but it still stood alone in the centre of its block.
I must have stared at it for too long, because the little old lady who worked behind the counter appeared at my side and asked if she could help me. I asked the price, I've no idea why now. I knew I would buy it.
When I returned home, I scoured the house for the perfect spot to put it. My desk, the coffee table, the bedside dresser. None of it looked right, it was all too commonplace. That's when I remembered the little corner shelf high up in the dining room, the one that was only noticeable just before sunset when the dying sun shafted into the corner for all of an hour before setting.
I waited until it was sunset for that reason, a foolish and romantic attempt at a sense of occasion. I clambered up onto a wobbly chair and went to wipe the dust off the shelf with my sweater sleeve. There was a picture frame in the way, lying face down in the grubby grey dirt. I put the glass teardrop down on the dusty shelf and picked up the photograph with a sinking sense of certainty. There you were, laughing, covered in snow from a snow fight and bundled up in layers of winter clothes. You hated that picture, that's why it was in the far corner, but I loved it. You were so alive. The sun lit up the glass teardrop unnoticed and passed away below the horizon. A single teardrop fell from my jaw onto the picture. A real teardrop on the glass, flat, fleeting, broken and imperfect, but real.
I nearly took the glass teardrop back to the shop that weekend, but I didn't want to disappoint the old lady. Besides, some of them have an odd glint in their eye that unnerves me. Instead, I wrapped it up and sent it to my aunt for her birthday. I hope she likes it.
It wasn't one of those cheap pieces of glass on string, nor a faceted crystal teardrop. It was suspended inside another block of glass somehow, with other shafts and angles intercepting it, but not splitting it or spoiling it. I stared at it for countless minutes trying to work out if it was glass and air, cracked glass, sheets of glass or some other clever technique. The light poured around it, bright and dark, but it still stood alone in the centre of its block.
I must have stared at it for too long, because the little old lady who worked behind the counter appeared at my side and asked if she could help me. I asked the price, I've no idea why now. I knew I would buy it.
When I returned home, I scoured the house for the perfect spot to put it. My desk, the coffee table, the bedside dresser. None of it looked right, it was all too commonplace. That's when I remembered the little corner shelf high up in the dining room, the one that was only noticeable just before sunset when the dying sun shafted into the corner for all of an hour before setting.
I waited until it was sunset for that reason, a foolish and romantic attempt at a sense of occasion. I clambered up onto a wobbly chair and went to wipe the dust off the shelf with my sweater sleeve. There was a picture frame in the way, lying face down in the grubby grey dirt. I put the glass teardrop down on the dusty shelf and picked up the photograph with a sinking sense of certainty. There you were, laughing, covered in snow from a snow fight and bundled up in layers of winter clothes. You hated that picture, that's why it was in the far corner, but I loved it. You were so alive. The sun lit up the glass teardrop unnoticed and passed away below the horizon. A single teardrop fell from my jaw onto the picture. A real teardrop on the glass, flat, fleeting, broken and imperfect, but real.
I nearly took the glass teardrop back to the shop that weekend, but I didn't want to disappoint the old lady. Besides, some of them have an odd glint in their eye that unnerves me. Instead, I wrapped it up and sent it to my aunt for her birthday. I hope she likes it.
Literature
10 moments of silence
[Ten moments of silence.]
I
I fell in love with the full,
fluffy heaps of white on sidewalks,
the icicles that clung
to gutters and railings.
II
My mountains changed;
They're blue and ridged now.
The summers bleed the pavement
like steaming gray socks.
Shade does not offer solace
from moist, viscous air. In the afternoons,
if luck chances by, the humidity lofts
into thick purple clouds
and rain slaps hot pavement.
I can breathe.
III
The carrot leaves
fell from gold foliage
like drops of sunset.
I closed my eyes and saw twelve wild turkeys
gaggle cross the yard, a doe freeze,
framed by the window, ineffable
bright-lined
Literature
Smoke and Mirrors.
Possibilities and eyelids
sketching shapes
of love or something similar
Effortless and seamless
shapes
of something similar
while pseudo lighting glistens
on the rain outside.
trapped in cages of
lust dust
and and
hope smoke
and and
wearing bruises and screaming
"I hope I die on this, this day
of love,
release me,
Literature
Broken Music Box
I pulled the stars over your comely eyes
stretching my arms stiff
until they covered your body blue.
Its shadows were brave enough to keep us well hid
for the shimmer gold in your hair beaconed all lovers lost.
We found ourselves on a beach, whose sand I could not place,
our bare feet sweeping the froth of the waves.
The brightest stars as our guide led us to the end
of a pair of sea docks and washed upon it
a broken music box, wood crippling its age.
I breathed into it [but only after you],
and from it came a sound that played like the ballet.
One which neither you nor I had danced to,
but our fingers entwined without words
to
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This one spilled out of my pen one day.
I finally found the link to the Unknown Artist article this was featured in. Check out the other people in there: [link]
If you liked this, then try out Fly on The Wall from my new account,
I finally found the link to the Unknown Artist article this was featured in. Check out the other people in there: [link]
If you liked this, then try out Fly on The Wall from my new account,
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