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Parable (2) by RichardLeach, literature

Literature

Parable (2)

Most of us didn't want to jump We were high in the air And had no parachutes We talked it over as calmly as we could The discussion became heated No one's mind was changed In the end those who wanted to jump Threw open the doors, Tackled the rest of us And pulled us all into the air We don't know how long the fall will be We were higher than we knew But we know the ground is below us And we have no parachutes

underside of the tightrope by gliitchlord, literature

Literature

underside of the tightrope

cling to that light, it is fleeting as warmth. it grows, the dark. it shows, your lack of knowing. it sings in your blush, hits all the high notes with a voice that ripples. stipulations on the validity of this dimension, one plane can't envision the under. wonder and terror echo the same, when you touch the void it learns your name. it yearns to maim, this undoer, this gorger of the unlucky sweet. tucks teeth around the softening, sucks down the screams. the dreams of the rest are waking.

Let There Be, revisited by RichardLeach, journal

Let There Be, revisited

Aug 24, 2017

A poem written in 2011 from A Brave Unbodied Scheme by Hanan Kazma and me. Let there be silence. Let the senator rise and open his mouth to tell his lies and nothing come out. Let the senator sit. Let there be silence. Let the red light glow to begin the lies on the TV show and nothing be heard. Let the light go out. Let there be silence. Let the old men begin to tell their old lies over again and there be no sound. Let the old men stop. Let there be silence. Let the ears forget the sound of all that the liars said, the drawl and bark. Let the ears rest. Image: partiallyHere (https://www.deviantart.com/partiallyhere) Words: RichardLeach (https://www.deviantart.com/richardleach) Today August August 24,

Dream Aquarium by RichardLeach, literature

Literature

Dream Aquarium

"The dream is the aquarium of the night"—Victor Hugo Jacob folded up his cloak, lay his head upon a rock; came the angels swimming down the ladders of a dream. Folding what you can each night for padding, lay your weary head on the stone of your own life and let the swimmers come. Are any met there but yourself, as bright or spiky angels pass? Who will listen when you wake, and rise into the air? No fear of drowning, this is not the ocean of the endless night; just a tame and restful tank and ladders in a dream.

whirlfool by gliitchlord, literature

Literature

whirlfool

i. i set that totem to task, spun with full intent to be there when it stopped. watched as it wobbled, danced slow across the old tabletop. listened to it find its way, weaving new grains from thin airs. mesmerized myself with the sight and sound of infinity. ii. outside it grew louder; the evening cawed. i could not pay attention past the eons. ears bled, clawed by the echoes. the streets gave to alleyways each sharpened alarm. here set a shell, man once given pulse. here breathed no person, no remnant, none. iii. wonder where i left that totem if it spins now in error or if it fell with my crest.

The lost cloth by oviedomedina, literature

Mothers by Poetrymann, literature

Literature

Mothers

He left her to clean up his mess again - laundry that never saw the light of day and those strange stains inside the kitchen sink- coffee, or maybe last Tuesday's dinner. The kitchen floor looked hungry and angry in the morning light, a thin sheen of sweat bubbling up the floorboards and the cat's bowl wanted filling once again. She dusted other women off the bed frame and guessed whose red hair flamed against the mirror and wondered why they never hung their dresses up. She sorted out his socks searching for the mates and left the bedroom drapes soaking in the sink. Men are messy children - no pride in hearth or h

God's Own Wrath, Served With Rice And Chicken by OnLinedPaper, literature

Literature

God's Own Wrath, Served With Rice And Chicken

He stepped out into the pre-dawn light, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he cracked his back. The Glowing City was never at a loss for illumination, but there was something surreal about the moment when neon lights and glaring billboards yielded to the glow of smog lit by sunlight. Tayl was in a fantastic mood this morning, the first time he’d felt genuinely at ease since last week – likely a result of finally getting a solid 11 hours of sleep after back-to-back all nighters cracking SOSPHO’s new firewalls. The spectre shouldered the duffel bag at his side and stepped out onto the stairs, rubbing his stomach as

iisthi attvaaenkjdeubssr teatalotlhe by gliitchlord, literature

Literature

iisthi attvaaenkjdeubssr teatalotlhe

i. deathly afraid of the fail, scent of an error on dry lips. can't keep my wavering tail still, shape of an atom in full split. i've been alive but the day ends. i've been surviving in stasis. i've been afray, echo relays every scar in my iris. ii. how does it gnash, time between heavens? can i make seas of leaven bread? are there still seasons enough to keep your purring steady, a whisk away from evening's quiet dare? iii. death can't say we didn't mean the world, can't keep the air between us, cannot spare. he's jealous, oars and styx churned. orbits are ambitions, as we've learned. iv. how can i last?

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