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Daily Lit Deviations for November 25th, 2012
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Suggested by: ~Halcyal
Featured by: `TwilightPoetess
Poem 24 by !Pope-Tank
From the suggester: This poem is a well
crafted piece of rhymed and cadenced verse. It's
phrasings and forms are wrought with vivid turns
of text and its landing thrust comes soft and sweet.
Featured by: *Carmalain7
Thousand-StarJuly 1st, the Saturday
before Independence Day at the hall.
My son wanted to buy fireworks
to play with at the children's fair.
Noon time came with its teacupped sunlight
and steaming table cloth of summer.
But still he sprang, feet clanging like cans
till I smiled at them, in their shoelaced glee.
All I wanted was a cool drink,
maybe a beer and a few magazines.
So we drove down to the supermarket,
bought a pack for twenty,
You'll be seeing these for years to come!"
And I guess, what would have happened
If I had colored in the lines instead?
My son, now twenty, lives life with
a surly disposition. Quite
unlike the boy, who bought fireworks
with me at the supermarket
swimming in the summer breeze.
If you showed him a toy from childhood's
more innocent hours, he would slap it
right out of your hands, call you
And I admit
it was my fault.
But not some big
that television dads do
all the time, the actual act
really nothing more than
Thousand-Star by ~TheGlassIris
A spiraling story observing the curse of coupling
hindsight with good intentions and distracted conviction.
Featured by *xlntwtch
keysThe supermarket's made for scalping sprouts.
"Hair today, gone tomorrow," said Theo, working the razor like magic. He'd been rehearsing for weeks in the produce storeroom, stroking peaches free of vellus with a disposable blade. Thank god for the practice: Tibby's scalp was the tenderest of territories, and the boys were crowded Roger-Bennett-Sam from showerhead to soap dish to see who would start bleeding first. Theo chased the curve of Tibby's neck in quick columns, steady and unsentimental. A thousand fruits and vegetables sitting bald in their sale bins. By Friday, not even the onions could make him cry.
"Occipital," said Doctor Ben. He named the proper bone each time Theo braced his fingers somewhere else on Tibby's head, having long since exhausted the superficial sciences. "That's the parietal, I think. Do you feel the eminence?"
By a different definition. Tibby h
keys by *freudenschade
A well-written piece that looks at what,
for some, may seem familar, but is presented
here in a new way, not to mention the unexpected end.
Featured by ~doodlerTM
Tribute to MemoryThe old woman next door played her depressing version of Happy Birthday to You on her piano again, and Lisa couldn’t study.
The music wasn’t loud, but it seeped through into her apartment with its slow pace and low notes and bothered her, even though it was ignorable and she was comfortable in good company.
“There she goes again with the sleepy music.” Mark placed his Calculus book on the coffee table, leant back into the couch, and yawned. “What’s this, the eighth time this year?”
“The first time,” Lisa said. “And how’s it sleepy music?”
“It’s making me drowsy.”
“I think it’s sad.” Lisa stretched against her boyfriend and closed her eyes. She thought of her own mother, grey and unhappy when she last saw her, and now gone. “I think she’s sad. Doesn’t she always play it like this around this time?”
“I think so,” he said. “And if she
Tribute to Memory by ~Swiss-Dilettante
A moving, heart-wrenching story that presents
loss in such a realistic and personable way.
featured by *lombregrise
Doublon poetique I - CigaretteJ’ai mis mes bottes oranges puis ma robe blanche J’ai mis mes bottes orages puis ma robe bleue
Pour me promener dans la campagne mouillée, Pour me promener dans la campagne émaillée,
Mes mèches brunes frivoles par le vent volées Mes messes brunes dévotes par vent immolées
Ont l’odeur exotique de contrées de revanche. Ont l’horreur magnifique de confrères pervenches.
Ainsi, je frétille en les flaques endormies, Ainsi, je béquille dans les flaques harpies,
La pénombre me guide à travers les bleuets La palabre me guide à travers les corsets
Qui, pas à pas, jaillissent de la forêt, Qui fut autrefois, jadis, sens de l’adoré
Laissant place à la mer d’édifices hardis. Lassant, face à la chair d
Doublon poétique by ~In-Petto
A very original idea for this poetry :
a classic line for a classic poem, then
another one, written in italics, in a semi-
automatic way, playing with sense and words;
and so on. Bravo!
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Prepared by: `thetaoofchaos