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Literature Text
I'm sorry but you suffer;
shudder,
from a rare case of intelligence,
given to being
rather than thinking.
Eons ago you renounced
projecting careful, compressed waves -
with enough said before
you (merely) cough past pauses
into new causes,
for you are nothing less than beautiful.
No precociously flicked grins,
no grinding lies,
no frontal lobe love
to assign you a mundane touchstone.
You are sawdust whittled away
and nothing more than human.
And I hear you with your silent eyes,
you cast away your mindless,
not careless, past participle particles.
I savour what is beyond them; I wouldn't risk
my liveliness just to tease contemplation
out of drunken eyes,
but I'm sorry
I cannot love you because you think too much.
shudder,
from a rare case of intelligence,
given to being
rather than thinking.
Eons ago you renounced
projecting careful, compressed waves -
with enough said before
you (merely) cough past pauses
into new causes,
for you are nothing less than beautiful.
No precociously flicked grins,
no grinding lies,
no frontal lobe love
to assign you a mundane touchstone.
You are sawdust whittled away
and nothing more than human.
And I hear you with your silent eyes,
you cast away your mindless,
not careless, past participle particles.
I savour what is beyond them; I wouldn't risk
my liveliness just to tease contemplation
out of drunken eyes,
but I'm sorry
I cannot love you because you think too much.
Literature
A Delicate Thing
-
It rose from the water there, a delicate thing.
Its corroded walls of red and brown,
thin as paper, clung to patchworks of paint.
It rose in the air now, a delicate thing.
It wept the river in streams of reddish brown,
a sea of waterfalls, as clear as fog.
It hugged the earth now, a delicate thing.
Its face still smiles muted and round,
to spite its fate, that crisp death.
It bends and breaks now, a delicate thing.
It is pregnant with white and blue,
matured long ago, that harsh death.
It floated away from there, a delicate thing.
Its body bruised with red and brown,
a violent end, a delicate thing.
But its face still smil
Literature
Selachimorpha da Spazio
Captain Broahm hadn't been asleep nearly long enough when he was dumped unceremoniously from his bunk onto the floor. Cursing, he'd barely gotten his bearings before the ship righted itself, tossing him backwards into the bulkhead, sending a blinding flash of lightning through his already aching head.
His left eye clouded, and he wiped at the blood that was pooling there from a fresh gash on his forehead.
"Bugger," he grumbled, pulling himself upright with help from the cargo nets lining the sleeping quarters.
Staggering out of the still swaying cabin into the hallway, he climbed the ladder onto the bridge and found the first officer white
Suggested Collections
this is old but I was bored today and felt like doing something semi-intelligent so I fixed this up a little. This is meant to have layers to it, and do not expect to understand upon first reading.
Reading this I think that "you" is who I could be, or wanted to be, at some stage. My own lust for intellect or intelligence to some degree.
ehh I'm only fooling myself.
Reading this I think that "you" is who I could be, or wanted to be, at some stage. My own lust for intellect or intelligence to some degree.
ehh I'm only fooling myself.
© 2004 - 2024 Sperpy
Comments27
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What does “given to being//rather than thinking” mean?
Eons ago you renounced
projecting careful, compressed waves -
with enough said before
you (merely) cough past pauses
into new causes,
What are you trying to say here? I have no connection. Although, I like the sonic sound of “careful, compressed waves//with enough said.”
for you are nothing less than beautiful.
No precociously flicked grins,
no grinding lies,
no frontal lobe love
to assign you a mundane touchstone.
You are sawdust whittled away
and nothing more than human.
Suggestion:
You are nothing less
than beautiful—no precious flicked grins,
or grinding lies, no frontal lobe
love, to assign mundane touchstones.
You are whittling away:
sawdust and nothing more than human.
The end is a bit sloppy, my mind is going a bit. Maybe I am out of touch. What is this about?
Eons ago you renounced
projecting careful, compressed waves -
with enough said before
you (merely) cough past pauses
into new causes,
What are you trying to say here? I have no connection. Although, I like the sonic sound of “careful, compressed waves//with enough said.”
for you are nothing less than beautiful.
No precociously flicked grins,
no grinding lies,
no frontal lobe love
to assign you a mundane touchstone.
You are sawdust whittled away
and nothing more than human.
Suggestion:
You are nothing less
than beautiful—no precious flicked grins,
or grinding lies, no frontal lobe
love, to assign mundane touchstones.
You are whittling away:
sawdust and nothing more than human.
The end is a bit sloppy, my mind is going a bit. Maybe I am out of touch. What is this about?