/lit/ - Literature

>>12404021

The saline wind whines and blows over the face
Mocking the immobile stone
Scurrying insects of the vermin race
Raid his visage and call it home
Yet this proud and mighty cliff did stand tall once
He loved the moon and thus incurred the sun's ire
The sun with radiant wrath came,
but one glance
Blinded the sun's glorious eye
Thus he insulted the vengeful god of time
For he placed his lot over eternity
One fell swoop and the once sublime
Now lay dead, completing his destiny
He was the ashen earth, dead, there for all to see
While the stars kept marching without he or me

Blank, white wonder. Treetops, endless upward.
A door that will not close; a hall that shuffles on,
tunneling; candle-flickered, and empty.
An attic stairway that will never happen

upon its landing. Cracking window after window, wielding
Some force; an unstoppable expanding outward.
In the center of an opaline bubble,
tensile and stretching.
Simply put, I thought these things were mine.

I thought they mattered.
And then I blinked. I blinked. A brief scraping
of my inner eyelids against the lens. It had been illusory;
burning off from some oblique corner,
some indiscernible sieve,

Quiet, and ferociously sifting.
Your coda hung on my wall in a frame.
Sloughing the inside, scale by scale;
cell by cell. I never felt a thing.

First bit of something I've been writing on and off for a little while.
https://pastebin.com/kRkM1niC

gosh I wanna puke, sentimental: the story, however, this is all I could do tonight

The girl is pretty but exhausted looking, sad. On the other side of the glass is the image of a man haunted.

As they attempt at forms ofcommunication (sad expressions, hand-to-glass, long eye contact), there is a mutual feeling of insufficiency, a clear lack. For Tommy wanted to reach through the glass and heal the cracks. His impotency is too much to bare and quite frankly, he doesn’t have the heart to continue the session, to witness, her breaking. He pulls away.

Piercing crackles. A cry, a last plead, for one more moment. “T-Thomas! Don’t leave me!”
And for the moment, he sinks, back into the seat. He owes Meising this last reprieve, at least.

Her voice is transferred crackly and broken throughold colandericspeakers, her longingsare fragmented electronic, drained to mere syntax, but he understood all–in her eyes, pain transmitted clearly through the smudged glass and expressing what she could not tell through the phone: her love, her pain.
Through it all he is silent, stoic, but he is not a hero, and can bare it no longer.

“Meising!” Tommy crumbles, pitifully, imaginarily stroking her, the glass, as they both press against the partition, tears, snot, apologies, promises never to be kept but valued in the moment, held for a future…

“Oh! If I could reach through this glass, a-and hold you!
How–how I’d m-make thingsalright Meising! I’d make it alright…
I promise–I promise, I promise!”
She is a sobbing mess, her face contorted,heart,alsoperhaps, beginning to fracture. Now Tommy,suddenly solemn, peels away from her, forever.At this very moment,a twig snaps? No, more subtle–a shattering,barely perceptible, some…inner fracture.

My very first love, yes, oh how she remembered Tommy, scratchy chin, warm breath and his oh so manlycaress. “You wouldn’t have believed how smitten I was…”his mother laughed.
“Just wait till you grow up and break some young thing’s heart, just like your daddy!” Little Sammy is experimenting with a stick of Elmer’s glue, gluing all sorts of wickedness together.

His mother’s voice wavers, and a wheeze escapes her. Sammy, slightly annoyed at his mother’s re-tellings, but curious, observes her.
“Ahh…it’s nothing, just old times…”
However,young Sammy, keen little fella, detectsa hint of something deeper, asadness hidden inhis mother’s eyes,by her shortness of breath,a pain overed by time,cracks in the glass, fragments of…

Ajar door let winds sweep
in and choke the ember.
These open things crack lips,
damp corners dry in sunlight.
Tamp the beams, bolt the bolts,
the dial tone hangs above us.
If you'd like to make a call,
please the ones you despise,
hang your coat on the rusty rung.
Up has been taken for granted, conceptually,
and discarded for new, trite aims,
try a sideway glance, with lips forming
again to repel the ones you love.

>>12404021
your writing style screams reddit. please go back there

>>12404021

From summer skies has been drawn a tender mist,
A darkened night, as I beheld thee fair;
This utter joy, and hope that thou inspire'st
Like leaves of ancient oaks, that fell onto your hair

In days of yonder, when through shady groves flew wind
And highest dreams of mine now ride on waxing moon
Forsook the days of pain, as wondrous life revealed
The peaks of longing, as they pierce the heart so soon

Undaunted, I, awaking from my slumber
Beheld thine eyes, this smiling wond'rous glance
Here shall we feast: 'tis not the time to ponder
And thou shalt lead me, into life's pagan dance

One nightly wish was born to me in winter
When snow across the endless fields did lay
End this despair, and sweeten years so bitter!
Lest through the mists of time, a soulless wand'rer I must stay.

I'm not a native speaker of English.

>>12404034
Inspired by Milton, eh? But sounds nice anon.

>>12404041
Not really my type of poetry, but anyway, keep it up anon.

>>12404236
I honestly can't follow it. It would be more readable if the sentences were more "coherent" , you know what I mean.

>>12404335
Pretty okay desu.

>>12404021

“… new recruit… that is possibly a new dish washer… it is, if it washes his… his is not its… both are but single parties… which are singular entities, accordingly… in the larger dimensions… where there is some room… it is hogged by this volume… is the same room as me… just as good at being a room as me… being upon a level that I, too, am being upon… it is proving to be me… for all except me… for all such bad men… a correct amount of this… improperly inserted into a wrong amount of that… inserted into that, though… it would – then – become an inserted… only if then… will such be.”
“Only will it be…”
“Be if it does… do as it will… all of that (which is to be done by that)… be done…”
“As some of that’s.”
“… is to be that’s own…”


Copyright Christian Jarosch Dialogues, 2018

… I have bought myself time… have begun to use this up… the amount which is yours… is fit to the likes of you’s… the people that bare no such consequences of our sort… walking on no toes… preparing my stab into the back… the tool guided by another’s hand… so I do not have to touch it… when I see it… on photographs… imagined there… for his prayer… for that other life… for the other sensory system you have… for that intoxicated you… lost in all beauty… one falls for none of it in particular… it is all the same to one… alright for a job… it is good at it. Bad at the tasks…
… given by that world it is interacting with things within… is everything which is real to it… which came to its side… mutually on an issue… our expression of no opinion… about this knowledge we have… this lack of extra study we have… keeping us from higher praise… praise that we will earn from it… earn when so improved at it… a thing you want to increase in value… which may add value to yourself… and make you valuable to us all. When you have gotten that as well…
… that morphs to you… and yet it is you… it is neither, paradoxically… yet is more than one… subtracted back down… to know one’s journeying… know one going from one to another… know him as more than one state… since you are not him… you are sad him… faked him. You are him and you are you…
… you indeed are something… I have not met the “something”…

Copyright Christian Jarosch Dialogues, 2018

I open my eyes to a blue sky. I am a vitruvian man, clothed only in a clean and innocent brightness. I float on my back and hear soft slaps of water against my skin. A warm wind meets with my breath and carries it away. I lay for some unknown duration of time before I rise and see that I am standing on an endless pelagic of sapphire. The water is serene but a playful breeze occasionally sends ripples skittering this way and that, like some a bird overcome with joy in the spring. I turn and look around but I can see nothing but a seal between the matching blues of sea and sky. There is no sun. No clouds either. I do not know how deep this water is nor how I am standing on it. I try to wake myself up with the realization that I am in a dream, but to no avail. I attempt to fly away. No good. I follow what I imagine to be some sort of path marked by the wind.

Maybe I am dead. I blink around looking for some angel, maybe holding a sign with my name on it. My mother always told me angels existed. She said that they were among us disguised as ordinary people, and that we would never know if we met one. “Give to those who ask because it might be an angel testing you.” Only much later would I find out that the task of testing, or tempting, fell to The Accuser. The image of my young mother reaching into her purse and giving a panhandling Satan a few dollars occupies my mind as I cross this lonely blue nowhere.

The kindness of my mother brings to my conscience all the times I had failed to follow her example. So many times had I refused pittance to the beggar on the curb, regarding him as some creature of hell, some foul-smelling incarnation of vice and indolence. Ah, yes. Mothers make the devil out to be man and sons make man out to be the devil. Still worse were those instances when I simply ignored the beggar. I would avert my gaze or mark a path around him. Yet to withhold from him any form of acknowledgment, to refuse his existence, was to betray his humanity—and to betray the humanity of a man is to betray the whole of humanity. There was dignity for him in being denied his impetrations, but none in him being denied his existence. Ignoring the devil has similar consequences. The man pretending not to see the beggar sitting on the curb is very often the same man pretending not to feel the devil sitting on his heart.