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Sunday When it’s done, she neatly tears the notebook into strips of sentences. Throws them upwards, imagines them melt through to the other side. Imagines another girl finishing the story of a girl who wrote a girl.Sunday
Clouds hurry past. She’s running, skipping, leaping.
by ~infrangiblegreen
Saturday The quiet jingle of bells leads her to the building. It’s a gentle blue, and if she squints the lines blur between stone and twilight.Saturday
In the room there is a gathering. The hush has settled in her ears now, and when they turn to greet her their voices burst in her head like patterns on the inside of her eyelids. Her reply is meek, the words still uncertain without the hallway of her mouth to take off their coats in. She wonders if they were waiting for her, there’s no surprise in their expressions and in turn they clasp her hands. There’s a jiggling in her stomach for the first
by ~infrangiblegreen
To whom it may concernTo whom it may concern,To whom it may concern
You’d laugh if you read this, or maybe, your brow would furl (like sails) and I’d know to hide from the coming storm beneath my thin scrap of words. They’re all I have, sweetheart, don’t mock them so; I know they’re imprecise, but the scientific method wouldn’t suffice—there just isn’t enough string in the world to hold up to my love and mark its length with a pencil. I’ll start again—
Sweetheart,
—No, it just won’t do. It doesn’t look right, the deceiving sweet S (I can refrain from my gratuito
by ~infrangiblegreen
ParabolaAngles and austere equations plotted on nature's paper: white flesh and perpendicular veins beneath grey-on-gold leaves biting into branches slicingParabola
into desiccated trunks carving into tired earth digging into--
smoke.
Autumn smoke curves achingly up,
towards distant cloud wisps. Wood sparse and damp;
there's only smoke without the fire.
Wood holds back, receding behind wet moss and cautious smoke creeps lowly, embracing worldly memories of swings and children and leaf hills,
and misplaced dreams like autumn air that stings. &nbs
by ~infrangiblegreen
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Devious Info
- Current Residence: Leamington Spa
- Interests: Life
- Favourite artist: Yoshitaka Amano, Gustav Klimt, Tetsuya Nomuro
- Favourite poet or writer: Robert Frost, Sylvia Plath, Denver Butson, Douglas Adams, Oscar Wilde, Haruki Murakami, Pratchett
- Personal Quote: "what?"
- Tools of the Trade: Jack of all trades, king of none
- Email: nelliferenczi@googlemail.com
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a voice inside my head breaks the analogue.
~Judas130
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a voice inside my head breaks the analogue.
~Judas130
unwrapped
xo!
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an antique arms and armor expert
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Brain tingles ftw
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Suggest a Lit DD today!
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A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want?
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