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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
August 18, 2015
progress report by ghostinafog takes you on a beautiful journey through, in their words, the scariest and coolest thing in the world - space.
Featured by TheMaidenInBlack
Suggested by doughboycafe
Literature Text
the astronauts never returned and neither did the news
in my hands i fold a megalithic pigeon
the take-home message is: the cosmos is a cold dead bitch
as you sleep under magazines, waiting for nothing.
in the shackles of a sterilized den, there's an actual
mastodon heart, pale and glassy pink, icy film
tightened like a fist; - and the scientists despair:
it's the morning of the opening,
then the few slashes of paralyzing waves.
like a sign we'd make when we were younger, a way to disarm
a bandit, or a preacher
or the oncoming horde of space invaders.
but the drawings you sent to venus never returned,
and now the crack,
and the scientists at a loss before the angered public.
they release a report that states that the floodgates opened
by themselves, that the valves erode
like the chalky sand that will swirl and hiss
in the crater where once hid the laboratory,
that we're watching the tender stalks nipped
in a glass cage of language.
and no greenhouse can account for the atrocity we receive.
i infer that the answer to what's that noise is always silence,
you will recognize it in the fire alarm that wakes you up.
there is no text on the mess of paper that falls
from my hands into the orbit; but you wait for it,
wait.
in my hands i fold a megalithic pigeon
the take-home message is: the cosmos is a cold dead bitch
as you sleep under magazines, waiting for nothing.
in the shackles of a sterilized den, there's an actual
mastodon heart, pale and glassy pink, icy film
tightened like a fist; - and the scientists despair:
it's the morning of the opening,
then the few slashes of paralyzing waves.
like a sign we'd make when we were younger, a way to disarm
a bandit, or a preacher
or the oncoming horde of space invaders.
but the drawings you sent to venus never returned,
and now the crack,
and the scientists at a loss before the angered public.
they release a report that states that the floodgates opened
by themselves, that the valves erode
like the chalky sand that will swirl and hiss
in the crater where once hid the laboratory,
that we're watching the tender stalks nipped
in a glass cage of language.
and no greenhouse can account for the atrocity we receive.
i infer that the answer to what's that noise is always silence,
you will recognize it in the fire alarm that wakes you up.
there is no text on the mess of paper that falls
from my hands into the orbit; but you wait for it,
wait.
Literature
Lessons
In forty-seven minutes I will be twenty-one years old and my throat is tight with this notion
that every passing moment is a boat taking me further from the boy on the side of the road.
I am terrified of the swelling tide of time, the ripples I will create,
the creases that will be etched into my face
without the laughter lines I know he would have left and
one day someone will ask me how many siblings I have and I will hesitate
because he will be so distant and I can feel it coming.
I never intended to swim without him, but
I am drowning under the weight of pocket-stone-people,
the ones I love who he has never met and won't ever meet
and it
Literature
Writer
I am a scientist;
Pinning down ideas
like butterflies
preserving them in
their fragile beauty
as I take away their freedom,
their life.
I am a parasite;
sucking the soul out
of music and leaving it
a hollow shell
that plays like
the noisy silence in
my ears.
I am a thief;
taking what is not mine,
the world around me,
and pouring it into
a mould that
I claim is
my own.
I am a blasphemer;
playing God in a
sacred place, changing
the world to my
liking when the orchestra
is not under my
conduction.
I am a liar;
selling false havens
to lonely runaways,
giving them a glimpse
of a world more glamorous,
more fantas
Literature
155 days of rain
the doctor asked me if i felt positively
about myself as a person and i bit his hand,
said send me to Seattle
so i can learn what these scars mean.
the rain baptized only my hair: my entire body
stayed dry but i felt like a mermaid,
a drop of sky turned summer soul. years ago,
a boy came to me from Seattle and dug his nails
into my palms to name me crescent moon.
i followed that crooked smile across state borders,
let it lead me to the widest horizon you can imagine.
our love was Thales’ wet dream: all water,
endless ocean to swim and swim and drown in.
i’ve got strong legs and a weak head,
never knew the meaning of
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EDIT: sweet baby salami, thank you all so much
EDIT: sweet baby salami, thank you all so much
© 2015 - 2024 ghostinafog
Comments48
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How true. Incredible work.