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Literature Text
Once there was a hashbrown that couldn’t get up. It cried “milky, milky, milky.”
All its life it had felt lonesome, but in this moment, it was indubitably worse. The hashbrown began to have a flashback to its childhood days on the Kamikoze squad. A knitting circle for past kamikaze squad members. It missed the faint friction of the knitting needles. The trashbag that sat next to him smelled of stale beer and garbage. The eloquent conversions it had between the trashbag, it was almost as if it was sitting next to it once again. It misses the salty spontaneity of the tortilla chip that often accompanied it on these lengthy evenings.
Suddenly it snapped back into contentiousness and realized it is surrounded by a puddle of grease. It could hear the furious buzzing of the timers blaring in its nonexistent eardrums. Looking past its fear, it could faintly hear a bloatious belt of “order up”. The synchronized sizzling that occurred next to it became irrelevant. It’s whole existence was coming down to this moment when it would face its destiny mouth on. It felt itself became cradled in a cheap paper wrapper. It’s wondered of the trees who deceased to make this cheap wrapper. It was then hastily tossed into yet another cheap paper bag. It was then handed off to a greasy pale beast. The vibrational zoom was outstanding. Suddenly all sound ceases. A grotesque appendage invaded its new territory and squeezed his abdomen, making its inner potato leak out slightly. This brought on yet another epiphany. It realizes that not only was it hastily given away, but hastily created. It’s whole existence boiling down to this moment. A dark cavern appears, and it is consumed with new sensations in the pitch black. It is on the precipitous of its mortal end. It’s world is taken out from beneath it.
Falling
Falling
Falling
Down
Into an unknown fate.
This new world is bright and warm. It feels revitalized and comforted by its fellow companions.
All its life it had felt lonesome, but in this moment, it was indubitably worse. The hashbrown began to have a flashback to its childhood days on the Kamikoze squad. A knitting circle for past kamikaze squad members. It missed the faint friction of the knitting needles. The trashbag that sat next to him smelled of stale beer and garbage. The eloquent conversions it had between the trashbag, it was almost as if it was sitting next to it once again. It misses the salty spontaneity of the tortilla chip that often accompanied it on these lengthy evenings.
Suddenly it snapped back into contentiousness and realized it is surrounded by a puddle of grease. It could hear the furious buzzing of the timers blaring in its nonexistent eardrums. Looking past its fear, it could faintly hear a bloatious belt of “order up”. The synchronized sizzling that occurred next to it became irrelevant. It’s whole existence was coming down to this moment when it would face its destiny mouth on. It felt itself became cradled in a cheap paper wrapper. It’s wondered of the trees who deceased to make this cheap wrapper. It was then hastily tossed into yet another cheap paper bag. It was then handed off to a greasy pale beast. The vibrational zoom was outstanding. Suddenly all sound ceases. A grotesque appendage invaded its new territory and squeezed his abdomen, making its inner potato leak out slightly. This brought on yet another epiphany. It realizes that not only was it hastily given away, but hastily created. It’s whole existence boiling down to this moment. A dark cavern appears, and it is consumed with new sensations in the pitch black. It is on the precipitous of its mortal end. It’s world is taken out from beneath it.
Falling
Falling
Falling
Down
Into an unknown fate.
This new world is bright and warm. It feels revitalized and comforted by its fellow companions.
Literature
Lintukoto
Life as a stained glass window in the cosmos:
a well of misfortune, shattered hours,
pieces of night and liquid decades.
A bird crosses the universe
and in the corner of eternity it warbles
a song that encloses everything.
I escape to the route of tempest:
the galaxy, oniric labyrinths,
a spiral path to madness.
Literature
plumbum
she has a heart of gold
and she, a heart of lead
and she, a heart of uranium.
and they go walking sometimes, the three of them.
gold is confident in her worth,
untarnishable
bought and sold and bought and sold
the virgin whore
and lead behind,
heart heavy in her chest
guilt from bullets
and pride from pipes
and anxiety from irreparable brain damage
and somewhere off to the side treads uranium,
tumors growing,
white skin glowing,
thin frame for a dense core.
Literature
The Sculptor
Before he would have harvested a tree,
hacked off its limbs,
skinned it,
torn it from the earth,
shaved one by one its cells - its outer core,
until it was what he believed it was,
no more a tree.
Wiser, he walks deep in to the wood,
underneath a forest giant he stops,
looks up in to the leafy branches, sighs,
climbs and sheds his tears upon its boughs.
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Comments3
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Wow, I actually felt for the Hash brown..nice job on your part