violet biolet: Archive

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Dec 30th

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Dec 30th

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Dec 30th

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Dec 30th

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Dec 30th

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Dec 30th

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Dec 30th

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Dec 30th

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Dec 29th

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Dec 29th

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Dec 29th

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Dec 28th

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Dec 28th

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Dec 26th

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Dec 26th

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Dec 26th

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Dec 26th

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Dec 26th

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I Saw A Woman Walking Into A Plate Glass Window by...

I Saw A Woman Walking Into A Plate Glass Window I saw a woman walking into a plate glass window as if walking into the sky. I saw her death striding forward to meet her, shadowed in flawless glass. Dogwood blossoms drew her, a lilac-drugged air, it was beauty’s old facade, blinding, blind: the transparency that, touched, turns opaque. The frieze into which she stepped buckled in anger and...

Dec 25th

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Dec 25th

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Dec 25th

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Dec 25th

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Dec 24th

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Dec 23rd

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Dec 23rd

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Dec 23rd

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Dec 23rd

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Frustration : by Dorothy Parker

FRUSTRATION If I had a shiny gun, I could have a world of fun Speeding bullets through the brains Of the folk who give me pains; Or had I some poison gas, I could make the moments pass Bumping off a number of People whom I do not love. But I have no lethal weapon - Thus does Fate our pleasure step on! So they still are quick and well Who should be, by rights, in hell.

Dec 23rd

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The Lovers : by Joyce Carol Oates

The Lovers Locked in love as the sky to its mock color in a frieze of love like beauty in ancient profile the lovers are a blantant litany the lovers are hoarse with shouting of each other their zeal eyeless and terrible their moods promiscuous as shiny black flies Locked in love like the glowing bodies of wrestlers in a panic of love as God pushes from every pore the lovers laugh shrilly the...

Dec 23rd

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Passing An Afternoon : by Joyce Carol Oates

Passing an Afternoon Blood transforms the warm bath water and, in it, I see weakly that this was a mistake. The razor’s cut is not deep, nevertheless the blood rushes out happily in the warm water as if kin to it, the same tender substance. Rising a new person transformed with an icy sense of error I go to the sink and turn on cold water which is not friendly to blood. The cut is deeper...

Dec 23rd

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In The Night : By Joyce Carol Oates

In the night the sirens are rising. All this summer night the destructive sirens move through the dawning dark of a city not at war. Walk to one window upstairs, then to another. Fires at the horizon? silhouettes of a human avalanche trembling to flow? Is that a death squad of sirens, converging? Do they surround a deathly building, condemned? In the heart of the city is a riot, not a word but the...

Dec 23rd

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