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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
November 29, 2013
the human syntax by *thesquareroot
Featured by BeccaJS
Suggested by UnspecifiedUnknown
Literature Text
mottled
there are carbon copies walking the streets
cut/and/paste people who
deracinated from scriptured roots rarely
ever realize that history is always unfolding right before them
or that somewhere in the bubbling
ooze of their jurassic hearts
a pasquinade has sprung
an unintended flood of reasoning
tongues
and merry mutants will come out to play
in scorched supernova shadows
while predation in the bio-mass
[has]
reached its all-time lowest
as shown in graphs designed to demonstrate
indemonstrable conundrums
there are carbon copies walking the streets
cut/and/paste people who
deracinated from scriptured roots rarely
ever realize that history is always unfolding right before them
or that somewhere in the bubbling
ooze of their jurassic hearts
a pasquinade has sprung
an unintended flood of reasoning
tongues
and merry mutants will come out to play
in scorched supernova shadows
while predation in the bio-mass
[has]
reached its all-time lowest
as shown in graphs designed to demonstrate
indemonstrable conundrums
Literature
defeathered
and this is where we bury our hearts,
between self-defeating personality disorders
and burnt bridges and midnight ramblings
we promise ourselves aren’t true;
embedding our memories in forsaken homes
like it is a conscious decision to shed
our wings (reptiles don’t fly)
and maybe I am the monster of every
myth: wide-eyed and jagged toothed and
looking to regain a piece of myself the
world borrowed, many moons ago
as I falter and stumble over my own unaware
feet, wreaking havoc, reeking of self-acquittal--
all I ever wanted to do was belong.
dreams are flaws much like the hearts we
flaunt on our sleeves, and I seem to
have len
Literature
Bowlesian Sonnet
-en if this paper in your hand was once
an Aspen, thick with sunny leaves; around
the base of wet and living wood, a ground
that reeks of life and death at once, then conc-
-entrate, and know at least in brief the grand
machine you sleep in, twitching fingers, won-
-dering just how one feels a texture, sun
lights warmth, bare prickled skin, bare feet in sand.
Oh this body. How I will tend to it
seventy-five or eighty. How I will
bend arthritic knees, by five windows, still,
the summers passing. Faithful friend! Now, bit
by bit, you close each window to its clasp.
This paper in your hand was once an Asp-
Literature
a conversation
i welcome sleep as it is - a long lost friend returning home from battle, arms draped over my shoulders, weeping. i held it close and whispered - as if it were my only friend, being the prince of the sky, asking of why i cling to my possessions like a dog to its territory, why i harbor insane notions about silly things -
"we are all barren, stripping the land, looking for love in white-capped waves of our own destruction."
i asked why mother nature was pulling me by the roots of my hair, and being as i am, a girl who speaks vague classroom french and stands at the waterside passing small thoughts
like stones as the brine and tangling seawe
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Comments37
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Brilliant! Thank you for the new word, pasquinade.