ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
On the weekend the 9 to 5'ers are
set loose into town, allowed to stretch their legs
under a sun, see and be seen
so that Monday and so forth
they may dream in substance
while they forget and are forgotten.
For the lucky ones,
Saturday is a trip to the candy store, a sweltering July morning at the Zoo
before the impressionable body is convinced of its frailty,
learns to grow onions from the armpits,
fall asleep under perfectly good sunshine.
Sunday is the Sundays of their highschool years.
In the Morning it might as well be Saturday,
and at night it might as well be Monday.
And then it is.
Fact:
On a wrinkled piece of toilet paper
accidentally sent as postage
from Folsom State Prison to a bewildered
grain elevator operator in Owensboro, Kentucky it is written:
"If time spent planning is directly proportional
to the likelihood of success
I might actually be able to just
walk out of here."
set loose into town, allowed to stretch their legs
under a sun, see and be seen
so that Monday and so forth
they may dream in substance
while they forget and are forgotten.
For the lucky ones,
Saturday is a trip to the candy store, a sweltering July morning at the Zoo
before the impressionable body is convinced of its frailty,
learns to grow onions from the armpits,
fall asleep under perfectly good sunshine.
Sunday is the Sundays of their highschool years.
In the Morning it might as well be Saturday,
and at night it might as well be Monday.
And then it is.
Fact:
On a wrinkled piece of toilet paper
accidentally sent as postage
from Folsom State Prison to a bewildered
grain elevator operator in Owensboro, Kentucky it is written:
"If time spent planning is directly proportional
to the likelihood of success
I might actually be able to just
walk out of here."
Literature
the love affair
life slides under the door and
I think about you not knowing how to love
and touching a person's sleeping eyelids
to change a dream, to lie here with you
under a silent oak tree, the sunlight
has begun to breathe and I am digging you a grave
for your past and your future, I am
holding you here, the trunk of my car open to let the sweet
sound of a song rise into the
air, it is rushing by
too swiftly
and I have premonitions or
I just got lucky or everything
means something
nothing vanishes without a trace
I hold despair in the palm of my hand and cannot dance
without spilling it onto the floor, it
seeps into the carpet
but you
Literature
Bonepulse
Everyone's soul has a song, you know.
---
Gently, I tap on the drum-taut surface of your breastbone with my just-too-long fingernails, trying to find the tempo of your life. Not the time signature, not the way you fit all your little activities into blocks and bursts and cycles of regularity - that will come later, when I know you better. Maybe when you're dead, and I can lay my head on your still-warm corpse and listen to the echoes of the last throbs of your veins, I will know your time signature. But for now, all I want to know is the pace that you take.
Do you swoop and dip through life so quickly that conductor Fate has a hard time ke
Literature
Bipolar
I.
A dove into a mirror;
A crow into a tree.
II.
There is a word missing.
Suggested Collections
...
© 2009 - 2024 stopdropandroll
Comments7
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
hi i logged on a little bit today, its saturday, and i talked about classical club tennis with 11 people after a beer. hi