the art of mattering by littlemoonboots, literature
Literature
the art of mattering
that morning, when her everything was trying to piece itself into somethings; when hours sleepless sizzled into fierce nights of rawness; when there's nothing to ease the pound pounding of shyness against two ribs that couldn't even repel the broken wonders of the human heart;
she waited to(o) (the temporal rising into steadiness of charcoal lungs and tears and stars and loving and everything between) matter.
comets in my head again by Nullibicity, literature
Literature
comets in my head again
There are bruises on my legs again.
Maybe I tried too hard for the stars - struck hemispheres of dreaming too big - while I count one, two, three, four, five shiners on my legs, ten lookers on each arm (your jointed peals of rage) and, probably, forty-four on my heart – though it’s not like I ever counted the number of times you beat me down, before.
It never did matter if I was enough for the 16 years - or for the Escitalopram - because I was never a star jumper that could trade in comets for the cratered, disfigured life of meteors.
There are bruises on my legs again, and I think I should stop dreaming.
Maria flat across the back seat - half full needle of something rides shotgun
my plateless Dodge shakes through San Fran near dusk, I can see away
the building - the white neon - the cross, of all the miracles we might make it
reach back two fingers to her neck feel a pulse got it
Van Ness a steel snake - a stigmata of coke cans - pepper gutters, the leaving
sky clutches a final urgent burn - my ribs a snapping cage for a demon trapped
heart pounding pounding. Maria always in my tilted rear-view eyes rolling back
hold on baby, hold on
back to road, banging the wheel radio barks me through the sharp theatre
of shadows that spring
The stars are falling black tonight, my love,
Along with them, everything we hold dear.
So, misty eyed, we'll count the stars above
As ever closer they are drawn to here.
So, love, do you believe in destiny?
In counting time, in counting every day?
So, do you, love, believe in what you see?
We'll vanish soon, our hearts will drift away.
If atoms wander through all space and time,
Maybe there is a place where I'll find you,
Some universal meeting point sublime.
We're trapped inside this hell of midnight blue.
But love, I'd search all of this time and space
Just for another chance to see your face.
these days Autumn stands with crossed arms
and a hunched back, branches bending to braid
her auburn hair, toes curled around dry leaves
and withered roots.
she's tried to call me a few times,
tried to water the traces left over from
last year,
thinks a reconciliation can happen out of
stems and petals.
13 missed calls: one for every day
she's been back in town.
her stance used to be wide; feet apart,
arms spread to the sides, smile aimed
towards the sky-
her smile aimed towards me.
i go to the park every day and see her hanging
upside down from the trees, scratches etched
all over her arms.
i trace the ones coating my own skin,
remember
Prayer for the Ecclesiophobes by clippedredwings, literature
Literature
Prayer for the Ecclesiophobes
I thought you were a cathedral.
Your walls seemed tall
strong
light kissed the kaleidoscope stained glass and filtered through its taste buds
and as rainbow dapples condensed my pupils
they let in more light
and I no longer perceived darkness
and as echoing hymns filled my ears
they were flooded with shallow waters
and I no longer regarded the screaming
but little did I know that this beauty had no stronghold
I forgot that glass sometimes shatters
[things break easily when they're anorexic and unsteady]
So here I am on my knees
pleading a Hail Mary
to a god I convinced an atheist to worship
Amen.
You send me
bits and pieces of your world
in too bright postcard pictures
with no return address
A world of plastic cutout landscapes
garish with artificial perfection
and scribbles of hurried platitudes
I wish you would come home
and stop holding who you are
at arms length
Cleaning Up - FFM 2014 Day 19 by cjpolodo, literature
Literature
Cleaning Up - FFM 2014 Day 19
I sighed as I shoveled through the radioactive waste. They didn't care enough anymore to make us wear protective biohazard suits, so I left mine out in the break lounge. After nuclear war broke out hundreds of years ago, humans adapted to radioactivity anyways, so the worst that could happen would be similar to a stomach flu, at least at the levels this waste is emitting. I've heard some horror stories with the clean-up crew of fresh nukes, but that's not my job. Mine's at least 50 years old; there's no problems here anymore.
My job is just that of a glorified janitor, picking up remains of nuclear wars past and trying to revitalize the land
Introduction: Warzone by Paroxysmal-Harlequin, literature
Literature
Introduction: Warzone
It all began with one word. A word that is seemingly lost and buried beneath the rubble we have created: Empathy. Along with other words, this one has fallen. I knew the world was breaking, most was lost, but it wasn't until that day that I really understood, I really comprehended the giant ball of trash that was the world. Our whole planet is merely garbage now, no recycling in fancy containers, no attempt at recreating something or someone. No empathy. When a person falls, we simply throw them away, even though, with a few moments of time we could recycle. We don't even reuse. Everything gets tossed away like a disposable cup. Sometimes thi