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Literature
The Furnish Is Everything
It was 183 days ago when Minerva Kisling the Yiddish Mentalist first came to my train station. She toured the Neptune-Aries circuit in vaudeville. I had seen her glossy photographs a few times outside of the Easton theater and The Springhouse when she played there, but I never saw her in person. At least, I never saw her until the locomotive that was supposed to be bringing her husband failed to arrive with said husband.
As a redcap for the Southwest Lake Station with a half-dozen sisters, I scarcely could afford the ten cents or the time to see a vaudeville show on a regular basis, but the children working near the tracks would put on chea
Literature
Birdcage
Nothing ever happens the way you read in the history books. In war there are never two armies, there is only a field of men. Never a number of dead; but individual lives snuffed out. That is what the subject of history is, years shelved and decimalized. Birth and death, graphed to the simplicity of lines. Great wars a footnote to the next great war. The achievements of men and women plotted out against the bookmark of day, month and year.
And somewhere amongst this, my mother breathed. Somewhere danced in now long-closed nightclubs, laughed at jokes told by a younger version of my Father. And then the unpin-able moment she fell in love with
Literature
long night
come, come what may; the night
is lean and our fingers are fat, candle
clay stubs wrapped round
wine bottle necks,
swapping lipstick with that cold wine
cold sweat -
tang of metal clanging round our
round mouths,
cistern of words that turn to lime
as soon as they are bleached out
come, come what will,
we say,
tumble up the yard
and into the morning
a barbeque growls into life
in the shadows, little ghouls
with the plum-meat of their eyes drawn down
and voices like wet cement being scritched,
scratch their feet
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Saint Denis is my homeboy. I just hate to see Montmartre like this...
P.S. comme d'habitude = like usual. The other one I shouldn't have to explain. Also, Chez Aimé (translation--Aimé's House, the name of the patron and also the past tense of the verb for to love, aimer, a fun coincidence) is the name of the hole in the wall (almost literally) bar where I wrote this, located at 17 Rue des Trois Frères if you're ever in the area. And if you've never been to Paris, go someday. Though, a warning--they love to try and sell you flowers...over and over and over and over again.
WOOOO! DD! Thanks ^Halatia.
P.S. comme d'habitude = like usual. The other one I shouldn't have to explain. Also, Chez Aimé (translation--Aimé's House, the name of the patron and also the past tense of the verb for to love, aimer, a fun coincidence) is the name of the hole in the wall (almost literally) bar where I wrote this, located at 17 Rue des Trois Frères if you're ever in the area. And if you've never been to Paris, go someday. Though, a warning--they love to try and sell you flowers...over and over and over and over again.
WOOOO! DD! Thanks ^Halatia.
© 2011 - 2024 Drunken-Splice
Comments21
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I know I already commented on this poem, but I've had it in my favorites and keep reading it and so my relationship with it has developed as it were. It is such an unforgettable poem. I read it back when it got a DD, kept thinking about it, looked all over deviantArt for it, and finally found it months later. Now I keep going back to it when I'm feeling a certain way; it captures beautifully for me a sense of longing or loneliness or nostalgia. Also I just went to Paris, and I kept thinking of it while I was there.