To be a writer
Means to have yet another excuse for bad behavior.
It means that when I sit next to you and I am wrestling the
smoke from your cigarette like a bear I want to believe
we'll end up on the floor in gritty film rolls and beer cans
and start to choke.
Because I remember how the whiskey made her eyes
shine and her her hair a swimming pool. When she took
me aside and said
"You two are going to destroy each other," with a little
Parisian smile. Expecting one day to read great mythology
that we made with bread knives we stuck in each other's
eyes.
So one day I felt like being more clever than
romantic and I caught you b
"Ridiculous."
"Really? You think so?"
"I do, Mr. Finch, and by the sound of it, you do as well."
"It's not about what I think... this is the most popular toy of the season. Possibly ever, to hear the news."
"Aw, I think it's cute. What do you think, Evey?"
"Eve, that sound is most unbecoming of a lady."
"Spoilsport. I have to say I'm with Dominic on this one."
"So you think this - " V held a small plastic figure aloft, "is cute?"
Evey's grin was positively Cheshirean. "Absolutely." She stepped forward, showing off the toy's features as enthusiastically as any commercial. "Look at it - all that detail in the mask, and they even
A cigar is just a cigar by Snow-Machine, literature
Literature
A cigar is just a cigar
Freud and the penis shaped cigar clenched between his teeth
stare at me from beneath everything I've ever written.
Clearly, he says, this obsession with monsters stems from
a childhood trauma. You're in love with deadly women
because your mother never loved you. You're in love with
the devil because your father never loved you. Your sexual
repression has led to isolation. Your isolation has led to
this anxious pathology.
Why darling, he says, and the cigar jumps, everyone
knows the girl you wrote into this labyrinth is you.
Once you address the source of your problems,
this unhealthy writing compulsion will cease.
So I cu
The Future is an Open Book by peterdawes, literature
Literature
The Future is an Open Book
tomorrow exists within the confines of a sonnet.
it sings to me sweetly, calming words which reflect
the promise of the days to come.
and i can smile,
and i can look to the stars
and sense the wonder of a child again
as i ponder simpler questions
with grander implications
such as, why do the heavens, in their glorious expanse
seem to engulf me in a blanket of stars?
is it because the night sky panorama is somehow
larger, or because i see myself in a portrait
and know, one being cannot exist by himself?
why is it that when i behold
something as ordinary as the moon
i can see the portal to the horizon
and revel in t
tangle me within the whispers of the evening
and hold me close within the shadow of the day.
sunset brings with it the kiss of soft remembrance,
pining for the brush of tender touches;
beckon me and steal me away.
i want to be surrounded by your essence,
feeling you inside the marrow of my bones.
i want to drift to sleep with you my final thought,
and wake with you a desperate notion,
my spirit not sated without you near.
you bolster me with words of wisdom.
you clutch my hand through tempests
wrought by human hands; you guide me
through the desert valley. when i am with you
nothing could distill these sentiments
except t
War is like a game,
You can win or lose,
You can capitulate,
You can make your enemy beg for mercy,
You can beg for mercy too,
You advance or retreat,
Like the tides,
You can use every bit of your arsenal,
To kill.
Thats how politicians,
Above the civilians,
Who do not know what it is like paying,
For their childish game of who owns what,
They protect us because,
Without us their game and paychecks decay,
Think of war.