/lit/ - Literature

>>23192640
i remember laying in my bed.
it was dark out and i didn't know what time it was.
the head light of cars passing peered through my blinds.
it was quiet out.
i tried to get up but my body didn't comply.
someone was watching me.
i was scared but my fear felt distant.
i could see the reflection of the cars headlights in its eyes but nothing else.
black sunken eyes.
no malice and no empathy.
just indifference.

AND, THOUGH WE HAVE OUR LIVES, WE KNOW WHAT SINISTER THREAT LURKS THERE

I invoke thee, unspoken one, and
it is as though you speak of dead
souls as leaves, as did Homer, Virgil,
Dante, Milton. It is now, now and
forever that we live, live, live on.

Come, come to bed—
come with your spire’s hole,
just near your apex. Sound,
sound out like a trumpet,
warm lips blowing through
you, O musical shell.

>>23192640
Little birds I feel as March's little
Sunbeams' photosynthesizing tenants
Bind themselves in glee to me —
Or as avoids my body slant away,
Decline to morph in twain.

But let us dwell together (ah!) simply!
And on but simple things only deeply.
Just I on benches sitting pond'ring
And you in azure circles drawing.

Oh, if I could have a fair, lean wife
Yet live my life in silence,
With no such thing —
Not a premonition of strife.

That is well too much a thing to ask,
I suppose; perhaps ask for lack
And I'll succeed at fooling thee;
Give myself a lesser claim to brag.

I'll make her, oh but a nag.
Surely then, some portion
Will outweighed with pains be —
Yes! I'll attach to me a cane,
Make me walk and suffer ache,
though not too intense a one:
I wish my walks to be fun.

Shoes, too,
Always in them a hole or two,
And far from joyous songs I'm used to,
The birds will sing, but they'll be blue.

Hm, well... is there another clue?
Of how to damn my lot
Only enough so not
To deal with rot,
Nor to from love fall out,
Put on my life a blot...?

Ignite!
For all things must burn
And hypocrisy
Suggests that we will learn
What the ancients meant
When they chose to spurn
The dividends
Of syphilitic eternal return

I want her.
Not because I love her,
And not because I think she's beautiful.
Neither is her color, nor her fragrance pleasing to me,
but I want you to suffer.

It might be that, should I get my hands on her
And — this is important —
See your face when you catch me having my way with her —
I might not be satisfied even then,
After I've made you witness to our sin.

But tribulation, we glory in it also.
You will offer her your forgiveness
And bury her unfaithfulness
In the depths of your Stomach
In your foolishness.

Do not fear:
I will not take her from you again,
But I've been in her and I have
Planted my seed in fertile soil...
Deep, and perhaps one by two or one by three
You'll see me in your eyes reflected,
Or you'll see me by her breast being fed,
And you'll store up envy inside yourself,
And anger, and dread,
And you'll with yourself be in toil,
And you will wish you could stuff me back inside that womb of hers.

>>23192640
I've always loved that series of paintings.