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Literature Text
there is a colour in my brain, I write the word colour,
I ramble through a box of crayons from years ago, I touch robin's eggs, I
see a colour and name it peace or maybe war
I drop my pen and come up with a paintbrush, I think desire and watch the
wings of a pelican change colour in the sky, disappear, flash back, think of
a day, black and white,
I read about a flower that is yellow, but I
don't want yellow, I want the sun against my skin, the colour that
an exhale makes in the summer when everyone tells me you cannot see your
breath
in the summer, there is a trembling in my yellow, there is a quickness
in my breath and you cannot paint quickness, you cannot write
yellow
I ramble through a box of crayons from years ago, I touch robin's eggs, I
see a colour and name it peace or maybe war
I drop my pen and come up with a paintbrush, I think desire and watch the
wings of a pelican change colour in the sky, disappear, flash back, think of
a day, black and white,
I read about a flower that is yellow, but I
don't want yellow, I want the sun against my skin, the colour that
an exhale makes in the summer when everyone tells me you cannot see your
breath
in the summer, there is a trembling in my yellow, there is a quickness
in my breath and you cannot paint quickness, you cannot write
yellow
Literature
Kite
the sky's egg,
so speckled with birds yet unborn
I sold it,
for the streamers of sunlight
caught in your hair.
Literature
Faith
And when you told me
love is as eternal
as the sun's voyage in the sky
did you mean
love does not extend
into the night?
Does it stop, cease,
while the darkness enfolds?
Are we lost without our hearts illumined?
Or am I to accept
the moon as a replacement,
a facsimile of affection that waxes and wanes?
Or is this a test of my faith?
To see whether I still believe in the sun
even when I cannot see it.
Literature
Charlatans
There was that unexpected duality to it, something of
a pan, flashing in salt marshes, broken up like old bones,
a war dream served with warmed nuts and Dewars,
drawled civility over upgraded seat assignments and
that Friday afternoon sense of having dodged the bullet.
Peopled canyons receded beyond lozenges of pitted glass
in that vertiginous sacrament we sometimes mocked,
mere hours since a proud dog-and-pony apparatus
went missing, sucked up barking into granite-clad commerce
and a sky gone gray in January's stolid transaction queue.
As long as they were talking in those soft syllables, those
Scotch-soaked whispers in clou
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We all know that art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize the truth.
-Picasso
-Picasso
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