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Daily Lit Deviations for November 27th, 2012
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Featured by: betwixtthepages
Evening Poems9 o'clock and
a nightingale song
from a starling winged night
in perfect mimickry.
The moon and her mandrake
baby screech whites,
peel trees to bone. Blacks
The stars meet
at hush- Deaf but eternal
jury. Atlas, stung by
each daughter: a pinhole
truth, still naively serene
after all they've seen: from dove breath
to flame. All
is a curse to the lampbearers.
The moon holds court.
Great judge, her metals bleed
into radiance, cleave twilight to hill.
She bobs socketless
through aether and flame, &
to her gleaming calm
all shadows die. No illusions survive
but reflection, who steeps wood in
moonwhites, petrifying old life into
holds voice at night's throat -
pulls light through sea's veins
and tightens light's rope,
weaving candle across
the skyline to bless
something older than memory,
more tender than breath.
a will o wisp promise
Evening Poems by a-secret-key
Only subtle differences tell readers that
these snippets were not originally meant to go
together, but the main similarity between them--
imagery of a falling sun, a quiet evening spent
on a porch--ties them together so beautifully,
it's hard to imagine this as anything but a coherent piece.
Featured by: thetaoofchaos
Love Poem for a Man Who Doesn't Get Poetry by scatteredwords
A poet's heart-imbued lament falls on
deaf ears, or rather, to utilitarianism.
Suggested by alapip
Featured by xlntwtch
Finders Keepers by leyghan
Suspense builds to a pitch-perfect degree
in this story. It doesn't end here, but what's
better than wondering what happens next? Follow
this fine writer to find out.
Featured by doodlerTM
Infinite Infinitesimal InfinitiesInfinite Infinitesimal Infinities
Everything is infinite; only we aren't. Our inconsequential lives don't allow us the time; we parcel it out individually, as we see fit. A slice to art, a slice to sex, a slice to words, a slice to thought, a slice to cycling trivialities. And no matter how many slices we serve ourselves, there is never enough and we never are full. So we hunger, but there is no mercy; we never starve.
Words are infinite. We, as humans, never tire in our experimentation, twisting and wringing out old verbs and adjectives for new meaning, and usually finding it, weaving tales of wonder for all to gawk at on our looms of dreamfulness. Those who do not dream, do not breathe.
Fish are infinite, and after all, we are just fish out of water, who forgot to grow gills and still drown in this depthlessness. We all like to sink into the deepest, most thought-provoking corner of ourselves, and we'd all like to think of ourselves as "layered", like onions or cake,
Infinite Infinitesimal Infinities by artistic-foolishness
A thought-provoking and strangely
poetic non-fiction piece about infinity
and humanity's place in the universe.
Featured by doodlerTM
Across the Sea and Around the KotatsuSpring
Mom starts with rice. Japanese rice, one, two, three Japanese cup-fulls of rice grains into the cooker, because Sis eats a lot of this stuff. It's one of her favorite dishes, taco rice, and Mom's always happy to make it for her because it's the only way Sis will eat her tomatoes. But back to the rice. "You want to rinse at least three or four times, until the water's kind of clear," Mom says as she cups her hand under the cooker pot, letting the cloudy water wash over her hand.
Rice cooking's easy though – just fill enough water to the point the rice's covered, punch in a time (or set it to "Quick Cook," which with our creaking rice cooker still takes about an hour) and let the cooker do its thing.
Ground meat goes into a well-greased and heated frying pan. Break up the block so that it crumbles into fine little pieces, and do this with wild abandon, because this is taco meat. Mom uses any taco seasoning that happens to be cheap; most seasonings rack up t
Across the Sea and Around the Kotatsu by Cerdisinerias
Magical and enchanting, Cerdisinerias
weaves a detailed non-fiction account filled
with connections and traditions.
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Prepared by: thetaoofchaos