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Literature Text
Old green sedan
Rusting away in the tall grass.
Far from prying eyes she was
Took a lifetime to find her.
Saddle-tramp leather chaps
Hang from a rawboned frame.
Weathered jawline
Comfortable with smiling
Peers out beneath the sun.
Skeletons are friends we never found
Dreaming of lush riverbanks
So far from home.
Dust on the horizon
Blacksmith's heart slicing the hardpan.
A tremble, a tremble
Gallops that engine
Of war.
(She looked at me across the veranda
Sitting there at Scarsdale Plantation
While the ladies played croquet on the south lawn
And she smiled...)
So long ago.
Collins and I
We ride out under that western sky
Rolling 'tween the purple sage and tumbleweeds
No one to ask us why
Green sedan
You purr for me.
Hula girl dancing on the dash
Beckons sweetly...promising everything.
Sundown in the distance falling
Sunglasses reflecting;
Radio is singing lullabies
Of lost hearts and moonlit gardens...
And Collins just smiles that reaper's grin
Men call him Black-Hand Spade.
<> <> <>
Hard miles borne of a temperament
Meant to burn steel and break hearts.
Johnny Walker and his cousins
Jim, Jack and Jose
Like to meet in 'tonks and roadhaunts;
Cutt'n heads just to watch 'em sway.
Spade knows 'em old backroads
Bettr 'n the back of his hand.
A rodeo Stetson and rundown boots
Carry the knuckles of bloody fame
From the Mason-Dixon to the Rio Grande.
Decided to hitch a ride with me
In my old green sedan.
Forever scented of time,
Of decades under lonely moons
And summer storms.
Dry-rot cowtowns
Shimmer in the heat.
We blow right by 'em
Let the dead stay asleep.
Ol' Spade and I
We like to fly
In my old green sedan.
Rusting away in the tall grass.
Far from prying eyes she was
Took a lifetime to find her.
Saddle-tramp leather chaps
Hang from a rawboned frame.
Weathered jawline
Comfortable with smiling
Peers out beneath the sun.
Skeletons are friends we never found
Dreaming of lush riverbanks
So far from home.
Dust on the horizon
Blacksmith's heart slicing the hardpan.
A tremble, a tremble
Gallops that engine
Of war.
(She looked at me across the veranda
Sitting there at Scarsdale Plantation
While the ladies played croquet on the south lawn
And she smiled...)
So long ago.
Collins and I
We ride out under that western sky
Rolling 'tween the purple sage and tumbleweeds
No one to ask us why
Green sedan
You purr for me.
Hula girl dancing on the dash
Beckons sweetly...promising everything.
Sundown in the distance falling
Sunglasses reflecting;
Radio is singing lullabies
Of lost hearts and moonlit gardens...
And Collins just smiles that reaper's grin
Men call him Black-Hand Spade.
<> <> <>
Hard miles borne of a temperament
Meant to burn steel and break hearts.
Johnny Walker and his cousins
Jim, Jack and Jose
Like to meet in 'tonks and roadhaunts;
Cutt'n heads just to watch 'em sway.
Spade knows 'em old backroads
Bettr 'n the back of his hand.
A rodeo Stetson and rundown boots
Carry the knuckles of bloody fame
From the Mason-Dixon to the Rio Grande.
Decided to hitch a ride with me
In my old green sedan.
Forever scented of time,
Of decades under lonely moons
And summer storms.
Dry-rot cowtowns
Shimmer in the heat.
We blow right by 'em
Let the dead stay asleep.
Ol' Spade and I
We like to fly
In my old green sedan.
Literature
Sweep
As soon as he stepped into the open field, he slung the minesweeper from his shoulder and pointed its nose to the ground. It was old, worn and heavy, and old and rough, calloused and breaking, and old. The metal between his hands was cold and chilled his fingers. If he was not careful he could step on the very mines he was trying to find. They would have to pick up the pieces of his body and to send the tags home where his wife would cry and hold his son and daughter close with nothing to show them of their father but a piece of metal engraved with "Ajeet Singh".
One sweep, than another.
This war had taught him to never trust open space
Literature
pollen
wasp-waisted beauty
pray into my collarbone
let your snake tongue slither
with the syllables.
i wish for soft-chested nights,
and the trickle of champagne down crystal glass.
poppy-lips, lull me to sleep,
nurse my coiling tongue with yours;
tap my scalp like a silent drum,
and wind my hair in between your fingers
like broken guitar strings.
(serenade me with the buzz of pollen in your kiss.)
Literature
defeathered
and this is where we bury our hearts,
between self-defeating personality disorders
and burnt bridges and midnight ramblings
we promise ourselves aren’t true;
embedding our memories in forsaken homes
like it is a conscious decision to shed
our wings (reptiles don’t fly)
and maybe I am the monster of every
myth: wide-eyed and jagged toothed and
looking to regain a piece of myself the
world borrowed, many moons ago
as I falter and stumble over my own unaware
feet, wreaking havoc, reeking of self-acquittal--
all I ever wanted to do was belong.
dreams are flaws much like the hearts we
flaunt on our sleeves, and I seem to
have len
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This legend was inspired by this exemplary painting by
And these ethereal tunes: www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKpGnH… "Thick of It All" by Porno For Pyros.
And www.youtube.com/watch?v=guMTFh… "Wishing You Well" by Porno For Pyros.
Featured here:madameshadowenn.deviantart.com… by
EDIT: Whoa!! My 2nd DD? I'm blown away right now. Huge thanks to Beccalicious for the feature!!! And many thanks to everyone who has favorited/or read this piece!!!
Just. Wow!
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This Kind of has the feel of Cowboy Poetry. I love old cars, and this poem.