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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
January 27, 2016
the smell of cyanide in the morning. by DameVulpes is painfully true and necessary.
Featured by HugQueen
Suggested by doughboycafe
Literature Text
.
he was someone
with
thin-boned fists
and
thick muscle
in his chest.
f r a g i l e ,
yet strong and healthy,
he was the
s i l e n c e
of a synagogue,
sacred and still.
until one day
he went
missing.
the locks smashed,
dusty boot prints
walking themselves
up and down
his floors.
(rabbi)t's breath lungs perched in a dove's rib cage,
he was peace on a battlefield,
an unwelcome guest,
killed with the olive >
carried.
.
countless skeletons
passing down a staircase
they'll never walk up again.
it's
only
down,
down,
down
for
them
from
now
on.
a boy with sad eyes
( so y o u n g,
so bro\ken )
he looks to me,
frailty in his
q u i v e r s
,
desperation in the way he
[ walks. ]
i can't even
look a six-year-old
in the eyes
and tell him,
"boy, you've got five minutes left to pray to a
> God <
who i know
save
you."
next, a man,
once strong and healthy,
now a shambling,
h u n c h e d
figure.
he
f l i n c h e s
every time a guard's
shadow
falls
over
him.
i count
all twelve pairs of his
(((((((((((( ribs ))))))))))))
.
and i
remember the
stoic
[ s ]
[ p ]
[ i ]
[ n ]
[ e ]
that
used to be
the
s i l e n c e
of our prayers.
last,
a family,
a long-ago familiarity,
a mother, a father, a small girl.
the father
c r e a k s
like an
old door.
"daughter,"
he breathes,
"do you still believe in your
> God <
who was supposed to
save
you?"
i whisper,
my voice
the replying
s q u e a k
of
| F | L | O | O | R | B | O | A | R | D | S |.
"not now, father.
and
i can't remember
if i ever
did."
.
Literature
old wives' tale
opposites do not attract.
me, with my soft body
does not want your hard
hands, fists around my
throat.
bathtub sunk, i stay
at the bottom and
watch peach bubbles pop
on my skin. your needle-
nails puncture the
fruit of me. suck the
juice from me. water-
logged, i hop on my
left foot. tilt
to shake you from me.
you are vicious and
sharp. the Anger. i am candy
floss, gummy teeth. the Sadness.
you lick your fingers
clean of me
drop my clothes
on the pantry floor.
Literature
rest in pieces
how does it feel to have my heart on your hands?
here lies the best four years of your life
finish what you started, selfish heart-
pick up the shovel and bury me beneath the floorboards
the wind blows through my shadow
let me haunt you like you haunt me
cold bed, here lies love
i slip silently through the walls,
through the cracks,
through the days
this house is a cemetary
Literature
Ritual As Resistance
Thanksgiving week begins
with the Dakota pipeline oil spill--
the unsurprising backfire
of a white man's pipedream
for a land he thought was
his.
This is how we thank
our native ancestors
for centuries of free rent;
though satellites won't show them,
tear tracks scar the plains
we marched them through,
chanting "love thy neighbor"
in their exile.
It is thanks to this
that I sometimes feel strange
ending calls at work
with "happy Thanksgiving,"
because my white ancestors took
advantage
of my native ancestors
and their giving nature,
thieving land and beast and body and
dignity.
This story is timeless.
We keep repeating
these cycles of oppr
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Featured in Groups
"God's hands never graced the Devil."
...
Edit- 09.01.15:
Rearranged stanzas in first part.
Edit- 08.31.15:
Added:
...
Edit- 09.01.15:
Rearranged stanzas in first part.
Edit- 08.31.15:
Added:
"(rabbi)t's breath lungs perched in a dove's rib cage,
he was peace on a battlefield,
an unwelcome guest,
killed with the olive > branch > he
carried."
...
My entry for Summer Contest: Women in War
Word Count: 144
I have no clue with the lines since it's visual poetry. Do lines even matter then?
A woman in Auschwitz, Germany, watching people as they walk to a gas chamber.
The different people are either familar or remind her of people she used to know.
This is my first visual poetry poem. I referenced heavily off of . Her poetry is absolutely beautiful.
Go and check her out!
...
Links:
CDC's article about cyanide
Article about Auschwitz gas chambers
Html codes and Visual Poetry
he was peace on a battlefield,
an unwelcome guest,
killed with the olive >
carried."
...
My entry for Summer Contest: Women in War
Word Count: 144
I have no clue with the lines since it's visual poetry. Do lines even matter then?
A woman in Auschwitz, Germany, watching people as they walk to a gas chamber.
The different people are either familar or remind her of people she used to know.
This is my first visual poetry poem. I referenced heavily off of . Her poetry is absolutely beautiful.
Go and check her out!
...
Links:
CDC's article about cyanide
Article about Auschwitz gas chambers
Html codes and Visual Poetry
© 2015 - 2024 vvlpes
Comments37
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I scrolled FAR AWAY From this one after seeing the title.