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After GraduationWhen I was nine,After Graduation by reflectionsinwater
dad used to play gamelan on radio and
he let the bronze chimes strike till ten
like chanting hammer and anvil bones
to an oracle I don’t believe in.
His father was a barrister and so was he
and he left the keys to his office
seven feet high on a kitchen rack.
I would get a broom on my hand and jump and
whip them both till the keys were brushed by a tickle of hair
running with precise pressure. Other times,
he’d lend me his pens and papers and I would fire at it like a knife.
Dad didn’t even try to discourage me. I’d give anything
to rummage natural harmonics from that smirking copper,
at least for a time.
Today, I ran off with the car at his penultimate breath.
He was now a Chrome skeleton,
done away on the dusty floor, a mp3
embedded in his shortened span
with a rib of keys missing from the rack.
It reminds me of a time I was fifteen when he vacuumed our home,
when our living reverie was lost to a space of
screaming stars and scratch
Try hard not to think about itAs war tears give up, ships throw out their lance.Try hard not to think about it by reflectionsinwater
Skyscrapers wounded, jumping off the capes,
they want the sea and eyes can’t think of amends
to seal the field of mannequins. Escape,
Sky. Scrapes would jump like ink washed off a cape
like flags of Advent aged in bleeding clouds.
Sealed daffodils maimed, knocking on the landscape,
I fear perversion has no closure. Sound
white flags. Advantages in bleating clouds
are tangled in my head. A bomb sleeps hidden
I fear. Perversion has a closing sound.
When my cognition is at peace and motion-
-less, water gears up, shifts towards the lens
and once seen, I can’t think it off amends.
Blueness: Inverted Computer Azure of the SeaFrom glass dome to beach is a click away andBlueness: Inverted Computer Azure of the Sea by reflectionsinwater
you can make a chair metamorphose to a cable in the Tropics.
What your eyes don’t catch, light throws its taser ace and
you’ll be fine staying paralyzed to the sky.
See, the magic of light in two halves,
the starry bread and butter flows as lightning
to the eye at the magnetic poles of the visual mind.
You think you see what it is, but only what it isn’t.
After a few more stale clicks and staring too long,
you’ve invented a parallel to your oscillating run.
Meanwhile, pantomime Iris has come to divine your story–
wandering to the solitary sea, your mirror half
finds a molten forest of waves in the middle of a fall.
Its leaves suspended as the shadows of a puppet show,
they plummet to your aging blinds as you walk back
and see behind the screens and offices.
You sit back and reorient reality the way you didn’t want.
You can’t teleport a chair. This is not quantum physics.
This isn’t a revelation
And last midnight, I saw what was a dead cat.To be frank, (as you’d never were)And last midnight, I saw what was a dead cat. by reflectionsinwater
it was more unmoving than gone.
You were stretched on the road in a phantom lightshow
and a young couple picks up your chocolate fleece,
lathered white dipped in coffee. Maybe
you’d ran away, felt
I don’t know… ridiculous
when no one wanted to see you slit-
but you dared to accuse you were run over.
I never went to
that cat’s grave like yours.
You had it in you when nineteen,
burnt and buried,
much rather than in the shade of an oblivious Populus,
unknown like incognito brown cat
lied to rest on an itchy summer, a green penny on its mouth.
When a cat goes, I’d like to think the
other eight lives latch like
theobromine strings of kittens to forced parents,
grieving and draining milk
to their faux corona crown.
I feel bad for those cats-
those kittens addict everyone to chocolate.
metamorphsi face each day a static-seeming world,metamorphs by deinktvis
so codified, unyielding and concrete.
but that view is with fallacies replete,
for in my mind reality unfurls.
(is it madness' song i hear a-skirl,
or chords plucked from epiphany's vast suite?)
i slip between the half-shells of my bed-sheets
to dive in search of fey and lustrous pearls.
i shall revel in this dialectic
and shred the weft and weave of sophistry;
i haste' to pop the quiff and in it reel.
as its tides revolve from blithe to hectic,
we are spray of this chimeral sea;
we are naught but spawn of the surreal.
Unbirthday Literature ContestOur beloved home-on-the-internet turns fourteen (with a special "Alice in Wonderland" theme) this week, and we all know what "fourteen" means: acne, the step-and-sway at awkward school dances, and confusing emotions.Unbirthday Literature Contest by ShadowedAcolyte
Or, it means a 14-themed, surrealist literature contest hosted by CRLiterature! This one allows both poetry and prose submissions, so there's something for everyone.
Dates NOW to Aug 19th, 2014, midnight PST (14 days long)
Tone Surrealism - blur the line between reality and the unconsciousTypes of Entries Both Poetry and ProsePoetry your entry must be a sonnet of 14 lines (for more about sonnets, check out this excellent article by futilitarian)Prose your entry must be a complete story, exactly 14 sentences longSubmission respond to this journal with a link to your submission and the words "CONTEST" and either "POETRY" or "PROSE"Also your submission must have a link to
olivearmies march in time,olive by littleblueraccoon
shouting and stamping
into Vietnam swamps
with booming voices
and dirty boots.
a soldier can't keep up,
falls to the side in tall jungle grass
and vomits out his homesickness
into the damp shrubs.
while the American girl
giggles and taps her nails
on the grimy paint of the bar,
chewing the toothpick
of her martini.
outsides, leaves curl into mulch,
and summer shrivels
like a rotting pea pod.