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Literature
Second-hand Smoke
Then they'd haul the cage back in, with its catch of miners
dredged from the mountain's cavity. Even their eyeballs were black,
see - they'd look like buried men dug back from coal hells
to return in silence to villages of wives and children.
Smoking kills say the scattered packets of Lambert.
But, we live squeezed between hollowed monoliths, lurking
along roads clogged by town after town. If this
air that tastes of roof tiles doesn't kill us;
if this damp, that keeps us damp until
the rain returns, doesn't kill us;
if the pressure of each person's personal slag heap
weighted with history doesn't crush us
then we'll risk a cigaret
Literature
Everyone's Claustrophobic
Everyone's claustrophobic.
Different people react with varying degrees of intensity, but no one is truly immune to being enclosed. It is the human spirit that drives it; freedom, liberty, control and power; these are the desires that propel people to action, the desires to take flight, to flap ones arms knowing that one's fingertips won't brush any boundaries, to think forward in time and know with clockwork precision what plans you have for tomorrow; and when these things are out of reach then frustration and terror overtakes the soul.
The enclosures that steal these things need not be iron grips. One need not be ensnared in straight
Literature
PROSE What Spies Do
My dad is a rock. He is solid, he is powerful. He can still pick me up and toss me over his shoulder. He is never seen to cry, he can never be swayed or damaged by opinion. He is a real estate agent, and he pushes those deals and sways those clients with confidence and experience. He flexes his arms at the dinner table when I ask him and points exactly which way it is to the beach or the gun show. He is a tree, a mountain, a thick and formidable presence in any room, in any place, against any person.
“He’s late,” my mom said, and pursed her lips through the ste
Suggested Collections
middle of the night poem from the other night.
© 2015 - 2024 PinkyMcCoversong
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