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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
May 21, 2011
I fell in love with the scattered and lovely imagery in Hitchhiker by ~pencil-pawn. The poem recreates the feel of flitting thoughts as one stares at passing cars.
Featured by nycterent
Literature Text
I am counting cars the same way
I count fishes in my sea.
But it is murky like suffocating drains
choking words I can't take back
a lonely side puddle on the road.
I don't look at the metal bodies
but the warm breathing ones
from rolled-down windows, carefree lollipop wrappers
bobbing mainstream music.
I count the drivers and passengers smiles
and theirs is more than the ones you give me.
I understand.
I guess your car and try to find it anyway.
Is it ferrari red?
Like a horse with electric hooves
thundering my loose earth
with ridge muscles
fearless mane hair?
Is it a monster truck?
Like an armoured hunchback
distrusting eyes
banged up front-gate grin?
I'm beginning to think whatever it is
it's black.
As your leather jacket that collects nightmare sweat
old tears
hands too young to belong to
Parkinson.
As your pencilled past that
colours both our lives.
Baby, I have washed-up nickels.
I'll take the bus.
I count fishes in my sea.
But it is murky like suffocating drains
choking words I can't take back
a lonely side puddle on the road.
I don't look at the metal bodies
but the warm breathing ones
from rolled-down windows, carefree lollipop wrappers
bobbing mainstream music.
I count the drivers and passengers smiles
and theirs is more than the ones you give me.
I understand.
I guess your car and try to find it anyway.
Is it ferrari red?
Like a horse with electric hooves
thundering my loose earth
with ridge muscles
fearless mane hair?
Is it a monster truck?
Like an armoured hunchback
distrusting eyes
banged up front-gate grin?
I'm beginning to think whatever it is
it's black.
As your leather jacket that collects nightmare sweat
old tears
hands too young to belong to
Parkinson.
As your pencilled past that
colours both our lives.
Baby, I have washed-up nickels.
I'll take the bus.
Literature
Subtraction
When the scything was not yet done
she sat, a run of sweat between her breasts,
a nascent blister on her palm--
before she took the whetstone to the blade.
Lower down the hill the horses grazed,
tails brisk against the flies,
coats damp in the torpid air.
Robbed, she was.
The day was loud with birds and bugs;
the mowing smelled like lust or love,
depending.
She sat and watched the silver sky
and felt the wetness dry along her ribs,
along her thighs and tired arms.
She watched the swallows courting.
One plus one.
Literature
the living is easy
a tin man, white sheep rolled in dust
wears a grin, swisher sweets clinging
to his lip. he swirls seagrams 7 in a cracked
lowball, painting the side of my grandmother's
house with one eye closed & the other
laughing. he cannot speak the language
so i stare at him instead, his penny
loafers, his peeling skin, his snowy hair.
so i stare at his photograph on
the fireplace, wondering how anyone
who loved my great grandmother so well
could have died before i was born.
Literature
From Whence She Came
Back down to the sea-floor she goes
back to the coracle-clusters and starfish that
clamour, cling to her heart too tight,
walking barefoot towards where she
came from. It is too hard walking on
earth, the way she wears pain like a wedding ring
frightens people.
Back down, down, crawling on her belly
on the forest-floor, alive with the buzz and crawl
of worms and bird-prey. Back where she belongs with her
crazy palpitating wolf-heart, her bloody
deer-throat leaking in the snow, her yellow
eyes in the dark.
Back down, beyond subway trains, piano lessons,
falling rain, from whence she came, to the snow-covered womb
where she fir
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Inspired by: C.M
For: C.M
Maybe I don't know you at all. I thought of this when I was sitting by the road, counting cars, waiting.
For: C.M
Maybe I don't know you at all. I thought of this when I was sitting by the road, counting cars, waiting.
© 2011 - 2024 pencil-pawn
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*smiles*
Congrats Pau
Congrats Pau