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Literature Text
A quick glance in the rearview mirror confirms that it's still there, the silver car, gliding through the dark streets behind me. And with every looming roundabout, we ski forwards on smooth cool rubber, skimming the curves elegantly.
At the red lights, the golden streetlamp spills over the car easing to a halt behind me. The driver is illuminated, hinting at the frame of a man, an arm propped casually against the steering wheel.
When amber hits green, we both indicate, simultaneously choosing the left path, and swinging our metal hips that way.
Through urban straights and country twists, he follows, keeping a respectable distance, casually trailing my tracks in the rain. Our driving dance is intricate, mapping miles of uncovered ground, minutes and hours sailing by. I wonder if, like me, his destination is uncertain. If the beginning of his journey was like mine.
We travel like this for over an hour, equal speeds, equal minds. A two car camel train, perusing the deserts of a tarmac street.
And then we reach it.
The crossroads.
We indicate again, as one. But our amber glows repel like opposing magnets. His car nudges slightly to the left behind me, whilst mine inclines it's silver head to the right. I glance in the mirror a final time, before I gently apply pressure to the acceleration, tipping forward ready to move.
His hand raises from the steering wheel and in the dusky glow I see him wave farewell. I lower my eyes quickly, before hesitating, nodding to the mirror as I flash him the indication of my departure. We move off together, gliding apart, blinking into the night.
An automobile farewell. Afterall...we've come a long way together.
At the red lights, the golden streetlamp spills over the car easing to a halt behind me. The driver is illuminated, hinting at the frame of a man, an arm propped casually against the steering wheel.
When amber hits green, we both indicate, simultaneously choosing the left path, and swinging our metal hips that way.
Through urban straights and country twists, he follows, keeping a respectable distance, casually trailing my tracks in the rain. Our driving dance is intricate, mapping miles of uncovered ground, minutes and hours sailing by. I wonder if, like me, his destination is uncertain. If the beginning of his journey was like mine.
We travel like this for over an hour, equal speeds, equal minds. A two car camel train, perusing the deserts of a tarmac street.
And then we reach it.
The crossroads.
We indicate again, as one. But our amber glows repel like opposing magnets. His car nudges slightly to the left behind me, whilst mine inclines it's silver head to the right. I glance in the mirror a final time, before I gently apply pressure to the acceleration, tipping forward ready to move.
His hand raises from the steering wheel and in the dusky glow I see him wave farewell. I lower my eyes quickly, before hesitating, nodding to the mirror as I flash him the indication of my departure. We move off together, gliding apart, blinking into the night.
An automobile farewell. Afterall...we've come a long way together.
Literature
Waltzing with the Devil
In a house, apartment, in a palace pulsing
away from that idle pressure on my nape,
I possess minds which are courtesans: my cured
extremities are waltzing with the devil.
You might think of a sentient rhythm, a drone
sashaying in a cruel intercourse
wearing Venetian masks in mockery of
those gods compelled to eat burgers after caviar:
I love it when your china is spread on toast.
A thought would hover, a buzzing tinnitus
reminds you of a kindly perverted uncle
flagging down a platonic boy, blindfolded
by a riddle of locusts: come Abaddon
in a pitch of flies smothered by Beelzebub.
You would think I am the illegitimate
by-produ
Literature
You Can Go Your Own Way
There was the ancient record-player
that hunched majestically in the corner
of the living room, its feet tangled
in the mustard-colored shag rug
that deadened the songs of
Ralph McTell, Gordon Lightfoot,
and Fleetwood Mac.
My parents were true Brits then,
missing home, wishing it was raining,
astounded by their overly friendly neighbours.
We smashed those songs
on the winterpavement outside
on our way to California,
my parents, no longer flowerdressed
and bearded, said records were obsolete.
Then came the pearl-colored boombox,
to play my fathers smuggled Beatles CDs,
between snatches and crackles of pop music
Literature
Singing to the Wetlands
I'm the girl with bayou eyes,
twigs, mud and death snaking into my curls.
I pause to breathe and s-h-o-c-k,
shock sets in:
Day One.
Earthen clasps latch on my arms,
pulling me back down;
the meandering waters clutch
at my bell-shaped elbows.
Day Six.
My smile is climatic;
the sun always seems to shine,
burning the layers of leaves
but I can't even put up a fight
to remember its grace.
Day Seventeen.
I'm surrounded by an animalistic embrace--
mismatched light from alligator stares
and throaty frog musings.
Day Twenty-eight.
I forget what color
the back of my eyelids were.
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I just thought of this tonight, whilst I was driving to work in the dark. I think that perhaps there is a double meaning to this that I didn't intend to happen, but am quite pleased it did. It started as a poem...and turned into a bit of prose. Let me know what you think
© 2010 - 2024 Kaz-D
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i like it! i drive long distances and the mind plays scenarios as you travel along the road, who is following you, where they are going, what they are like. it relieves the tedium. it relates to what i do myself, in my mind, in real life.
the story leading up to the crossroads built suspense and anticipation. the crossroads moment was beautiful, you could have gone anywhere with that - love, fear, horror, anger, the possibilities of the outcome were infinite.
in the end, it was an innocent and imperceptible wave and nod of two travelers who shared the road.
it is a well crafted bit of prose and the desciptions evoked images in my head. i especially liked 'swinging our metal hips', that was masterful. very well done, i give it the highest marks all around.