He's drunk in the backseat.
"Anna. Anna. Anna," he moans, as if my name is a broken record his throat can't stop scratching; his voice is nettles and thorns, every natural prick and annoyance. My knuckles go white on the wheel.
Ryan's riding shotgun and he won't look at me. "If you need me to drive him home, I can do it," he offers sheepishly. I don't answer, just press my foot to the gas and let the engine's rusty roar engulf John's voice.
I peek in the rearview mirror. John's laying across the seat like a dead trout, and I can tell Ryan hasn't even bothered to buckle his seat belt. There's a photo album in John's arms that he clings to w
"You're lonely," he said.
Thelma jumped, startled. She might not have even heard his voice over the thumping dance music, but it was just at that moment where there was a temporary lull between songs. He stood nearby, his head slightly tilted. Thelma glanced behind her, his words ricocheting in her mind - she wasn't sure what was more surprising, what he'd said or that he'd noticed and bothered to relay this observation to her at all. He was good-looking, tall and thin with artfully spiky hair, but something about him struck her as unsettling. Perhaps it was the way he spoke, or that his eyes were oddly piercing, but either way she felt hers
They loved their garden;
Mother and Daughter would spend
Hours in the sun.
Behind their house was
Green dotted with red, yellow,
Pink and countless more.
Mother loved roses;
Daughter preferred irises.
They planted with care.
They watched the sun rise
While blowing dandelions,
And mimicked at dusk.
Their birdbaths brought in
Winged visitors who were
Greeted with bird seed.
All meals were eaten
On a polka-dot blanket;
Nothing but home-cooked.
Catching butterflies,
Looking for funny-shaped clouds,
Climbing the oak tree.
They ran, danced and sang,
Never tiring of their
Love for each other.
Daughter did not think
That her
I was thinking about the concept
of the dues we all must pay.
Yes, I was thinking about the concept
of the dues we all must pay.
If you have paid them already,
there are more on the way.
If you should feel that you are tired
but sleep will not come -
if you should feel that you are tired
but sleep will not come,
I can play you a lullaby
on my big bass drum.
You should always speak your mind,
unless it's time to be still.
Yes, always speak your mind,
unless it's time to be still.
You'll know you did too much talking
when they send you the bill.
You can be seen by the software
that monitors the street.
It is always, always watching
and it
The hands that cast the mould that made the plough
that dug the dirt for crops to make the dough
that makes our bread - they let us grow.
The souls who drive the trucks each waking hour
from farm to store to shop give us our power -
it makes them dead - and we devour.
Each morsel grows from dirt to plant to food
we tear a piece and sell so it's construed
we do our bit - we don't - we just collude.
And while each toiler keeps us from our graves
so we keep them trapped in their enclaves,
to tell ourselves each night - we don't own slaves.
This is the tale of the beauty of Venus
and how she was showered with love.
Men would come from afar to sail
to her and profess, How I love thee, Aphrodite!
their tries, however, ended in vain and death,
and while she lived, immortal, on her planet.
Twas not until Hermes came to her planet
And cried, oh great Venus!
Let me have thee, even if death
doth end my life tomorrow, love.
Let me give you my heart, Aphrodite,
and together, around the world, we could sail.
But the goddess did not want to sail
and she felt weary of leaving her planet.
I do not love thee, said Aphrodite
And sent heartbroken Hermes from Venus.
He traveled back to Earth,
on forcing passion. by littleblueraccoon, literature
Literature
on forcing passion.
imagine trees of tangerines,
heavy sagging suns on all the branches.
rip one down, introduce it to
vivisection
(though dead or alive, it
never cries out),
and
squeeze
until pulp like entrails
forces itself between your dripping fingers.
stare blankly at the mess
and attempt to clean it,
succeed only in
staining your clothes golden.
work the designs against your skin
until the mistakes become tattoos
and the rinds before you look
less like refuse and more like
fresh-hatched eggshells.
as the morning scent stings your senses,
reach up.
don't look,
just touch, and
rip down another.
and another.
and another.