Pollution is an artist
and poison is a poet
Death is the brightest of colors
Noise is the sweetest song
Pollution won a grant
and poison won a fellowship
We're meeting for drinks downtown
to celebrate their well-deserved
recognition.
the birds on the telephone line have heard me talking
the birds on the power line have felt me typing
one bird two bird
the wind that bristles the oily feathers
the light off the moon through the black air
have all heard me
I can't remember what I've said
I've said so much
but the crows
I hear
don't forget a thing.
Your blood is the light in the sky and the night is the new blood replacing the old.
That darker blood you receive each day is the sweat of the earth swallowing itself with huge, heavy gulps.
Sure, time is running out, but it always comes running back in.
Time, blood, day, night.
Everything new is old again.
Isn't that the song?
Isn't that a song!
Thick dusk is coming,
whetting the waves
with you,
whetting the waves
with you.
she inhaled her controlling her breathes the interview is in 2 minutes and she already violated rule 1
don't be late. she couldn't really give an explanation as of to why she was. she couldn't let them know which would be
breaking rule two and she's already broken 4 rules exposing the rules
I am looking out the window of my tiny house in Michigan and watching the snow pile up on the road.
I won't be going into town today, and I don't mind at all.
My dog is in a ball at my feet. The heat is on. I'm wrapped in a blanket. I feel so lucky in this moment to be alone here, to feel safe and to feel like I'm home and there is nothing to be scared of.
I think this morning I will maybe go back to bed. But I think later I'll read a bit, and...
Laugharne - pronounced "Laaarnn" to rhyme with yarn, but rolled out a little further - at night, with the graveyard gently graced by the occasional working street light and our torches. Us searching for interesting stories told on the tombs and plaques of the interred locals, who at times had meant something to the small church community that regularly overflowed the tiny, overgrown car park. My wife spooked at times by sounds and smells of Rectory Barn farm next door. We share imaginings of ages past, whispered in chiseled words on stone. This one died young. That one, an alderman,...
The room was dark and hazey that morning. Im sure the night before that had been filled with booze, girls and college antics was the cause of the dry, drpessed feeling.
My proffessors voice piecrced like a knife in my skull as he said "You have six minutes to write a story. GO!" My hand gripped the chewed No. 2 pencil as I scramble to write everything about nothing.
My mind raced at the pace of a hungry slug as I stamered to think of somthing to write.
My writing skills are poor, I have limited ideas and my grammer...
Alfred Cappachino looked out at the swirling mass of humanity, a stupid grin plastered to his face to hide his abject terror. Which one of the lovely women in the throng was his blind date? He adjusted his spectacles for the umpth time, then reconsidered and pulled them off, wiping the lenses on his shirt before returning the accessory to the bridge of his nose. What did she look like? All he knew was that she'd be wearing a 'geeky' t-shirt, whatever that meant. Geek was chic now though, right? Hence, his glasses with the clear frames, his strategically-parted hair,...