Jenna comes into the room with a packet of triscuits
And offers me some.
They are salted. I don't like salted foods;
They're too much like the ocean.
Jenna, skintight leggings,
Comes into the room with a packet of trisctuits.
They make an odd noise as they're chewed,
Like the grunts of a broken bone.
Jenna used to sail the seas but now
She can just open a packet of triscuits and tell me
How much she loves the prairie wind.
'Cause it's endless like that, 'cause it's yellow like that.
She looks at me with a mouth fulla triscuits and she dares say
That the house is too empty.
It's got walls and a floor and you're saying that you wa
Two -really- short stories. by Red-banner, literature
Literature
Two -really- short stories.
She peels off the dying skin on the soles of her feet, she peels away the layers and blisters and sees the smoothness underneath, peels away the age until it hurts and her nails are crusted with skin and parts of heel.
Perhaps she is trying to be reborn, perhaps she is a phoenix who is burnt before flying and killed before living, perhaps mutilation and flakes of skin are her way of feeling her birth.
She isn't thinking, subconscious and that's why the exposed softness is pink but not bleeding. She's been running, you can tell because her feet are cracked and she's peeling off layers.
It was a long run, up and down the mountain, stop. Brea
The Pleasure of Walking:
Heels dig into dirt and muscles stretch,
Tendons withstand tension. Underfoot,
Rocks are crushed, for there are too many thoughts
To care about debris.
Written at night:
The air is unmoving;
You can hear the dog's clamour,
Nighttime silence wailing.
The sound arises from nothing,
Becomes heavy and rests.
You can envision the wind,
Roaring, furious, pick itself up screaming.
You can envision the dust,
Blinding and never settling.
But
No,
It is a night so clean,
The air so clear,
Your breathing is what's loud.
Daybreak:
It is black-skied, two-eyed daytime again.
Light coming from a faded s
Sometimes metamorphism isn't enough
To explain away the changing of the seasons
And sometimes I we me need to rethink and rewrite
The worlds that have been lost to so many people
Places things forget the grammar and may all
The neologisms live in peace in a language made of
Improvisation information regurgitation
Toss away all hymns to the idolatry and heresy because
Damn all those that decide religion lacks for them
Religion is rethought rewrote in them O hallelujah
Cynical drivel of those looking for a future that
Has odd scars and odd beauty and I'd like to
Forget something that is irrational so that just
For another secon
Hey, in the twilight of the summer,
With the insects buzzing lazily
And meandering like drunken dancers,
Let's grab a hold of cloud-cattle
And lead our steeds across the sky.
Pegasus with his mane of stars
Springs from the head of a monster.
Born from decapitation,
He speaks of the night as his home
And of the day as his murderer
He says that he sees or remembers
The Greeks in their ancient happiness
And Archimedes leaping through his thoughts.
The streets are scarred by circles and circumstance
For such is the life of a mathematician.
They had no Christianity, neither does the Southern Cross
Though it's a saviour like the Vir
A man stood by his window, all crossed arms and tired eyes. His dreams of flying like the birds had disappeared long ago. The night was swallowing him whole, but so was nonchalance. It was a suitable escape.
The cars ran down the street, their lights distorted in the post-storm puddles on the asphalt; the water spewed by their wheels rained on umbrellaed youths. It hurt to look at the vehicles crashing down the highway, crazy and epileptic and dancing in the rain. They were nothing more than a force of nature, he assured himself, suddenly cold and mechanical. They were machines with people trapped inside and what they did was uncontrollable.
Mother and Daughter sketch by Red-banner, literature
Literature
Mother and Daughter sketch
Her mother was a poet, a well-read woman who recited beautifully despite the fact that she could never remember the writers' names. And her daughter was a musician. She claimed not to sing, not to play, but she did both in secret. Norman had heard her. Not that he had to, because she spoke in staccato and walked in legato and her artistic affiliations were obvious.
She missed her home country. That was obvious, too. She hated her mother and her new father, she hated regime and she hated anarchy. With hazel eyes and brown hair, she looked fairly unassuming, but she had a tongue like a whip. Sheltered and condescending, with a no-nonsense atti
The woman took out a pencil. She rolled it back and forth in her hands, feeling the texture behind her fingers. Valleys and mountains shaped by teeth, an eraser that was covered in a sheet of graphite, a tip that was uneven and paint-covered. It was an inadequate tool, but it must do.
She got out a sheet of paper, tapped at her teeth, then began to write down the instructions as fast as she could. The words lost meaning after a while, simply becoming iterations of lines, but still she recorded every single idea that came out of the instructor's mouth.
... And talk to person at end of line. An imaginary salute later, she was tearing the hall
I will fall
And be tossed about like autumn leaves
In a bipolar wind
Tearing them apart.
I will wait
And be white-fringed like the ocean
In a storm of sounds
Tossing it in play.
"Mother!"
they shout.
"Tell me a story
Of dripping water and saturated sights,
Of holding hopes and each other tight,
Of heaving chests in warmth-fringed wetness."
Toss a rhapsody in my direction,
Meant to be read aloud.
Rs rolling like the weather,
And Ds hit on like a drum.
Rivers of mud fall down the mountain,
Raging and fighting and stumbling on rocks
That were tossed carelessly in their direction,
Like apple cores or bad ideas.
"Father!"