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Literature Text
i am a war-mongering hawk,
talons throttling
the cawing of crows.
there are secrets behind
your owl eyes,
broad truths about
restlessness and bloodshed.
my muscles twitch
against the soft rustle of air,
i imagine it to be
no different for you:
the feel of sharpness
pressing against flesh,
pulling, plucking it from bone,
until they are no more.
talons throttling
the cawing of crows.
there are secrets behind
your owl eyes,
broad truths about
restlessness and bloodshed.
my muscles twitch
against the soft rustle of air,
i imagine it to be
no different for you:
the feel of sharpness
pressing against flesh,
pulling, plucking it from bone,
until they are no more.
Literature
The Magpie
The upper crevices of the city belonged to Sparrow. She always kept at least a few dozen holes in various neighbourhoods, all in prime locations for overhearing gossip. On more the one occasion, being in the opportune perch at the right time had saved her tail feathers. This time, however, it was news of a different sort that caught her attention. A stranger had arrived at the city gates, but no one knew quite what Caste he was. Some thought he might not be Kikaror at all, but a demon from the cold lands, since the Owls had said they’d heard the demons singing as close as the Green Sea. They’d taken it to the palace and locked it
Literature
groupthink and gardens
we've grown so used to
stepping on flower buds before they can bloom because
they're a different color than everyone else's and
different doesn't fall into the category of "good" or "acceptable."
different doesn't fit here,
so we try and try again to soak stems in food colored water and
thick-coat paint on petals hoping that maybe our defects
will sprout some sense and learn to conform
and match the rest.
we took seeds from other gardens
and planted them in our own until our yards
looked the exact same as theirs and then
our flowers weren't a different color than everyone else's anymore and
that scared me.
i wanted deviation;
i had no desire
Literature
l'amour a distance
we love like vagrants,
ours a truck stop romance,
ours all the vagaries of
runaway time:
us a roadside motel,
us a highway map,
us a crumpled collection
of interstate lines.
ours a vagabondish worship
of the distances we drive.
and all the violence of longing,
is that yours or is it mine?
and the vacancies in my body,
are they yours
or are they mine?
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Feels as if it were a feather press.