#1
hey gang, it's been a while! i started to miss reading all the sick stuff you guys put up, so i figured i should probably hang here more

dust

there's a streetlamp on main street.
it throws out tiny galaxies of light,
they falter as they reach the outer layers of the cobblestone highway.

the light dances in a soft ballet with the shadows;
a plié that picks the innocence out of alleyways,
a pirouette that smiles at your doorway.

you might be slumped behind it
pretending the rugged wood is everyone it isn't.

i hope you are.

if you are slumped behind that doorway
with the light and dark dancing to a thousand phonographs
i might be able to imagine you as someone who didn't need a door,
someone who could take a door and see it as a door
not a mother,
or a dog,
or a soundtrack,
or a piece of set.
i could imagine that you haven't become a dramaturge
that instead you see every movement and static implication
as crushingly real.
i would be able to watch reality wring your chest;
grind at your ribcage
and that would hurt less -
watching you be torn apart and ground to dust
at the same time
by a reality that hates us both.

it would be the tiniest bit better,
because i can help you fight anything.

i can stand beside you and at least allow my remains to become dust as yours will
and we can blow down the streets together,
and be stuck in the cracks together.

but i won't help you fight yourself.

if you hate yourself, i have to let you do it alone.
Last edited by littledude65 at Sep 7, 2011,
#2
dust

there's a streetlamp on main street.
it throws out tiny galaxies of light,
they falter as they reach the outer layers of the cobblestone highway.

( i really like the begining but the 3rd line seems a little forced in the imagery department)


the light dances in a soft ballet with the shadows;
a plié that picks the innocence out of alleyways,
a pirouette that smiles at your doorway.

(good stuff all around)

you might be slumped behind it
pretending the rugged wood is everyone it isn't.

i hope you are.

if you are slumped behind that doorway
with the light and dark dancing to a thousand phonographs
i might be able to imagine you as someone who didn't need a door,
someone who could take a door and see it as a door
not a mother,
or a dog,
or a soundtrack,
or a piece of set.
i could imagine that you haven't become a dramaturge
that instead you see every movement and static implication
as crushingly real.
i would be able to watch reality wring your chest;
grind at your ribcage
and that would hurt less -
watching you be torn apart and ground to dust
at the same time
by a reality that hates us both.

(very nice, I can really see what you're painting)

it would be the tiniest bit better,
because i can help you fight anything.

(a little cliche for my tastes but I think it fits regardless)

i can sand beside you and at least allow my remains to become dust as yours will
and we can blow down the streets together,
and be stuck in the cracks together.

(did you mean "stand" ? Im a little confused because sand could actually work with the rest of this oddly enough)

but i won't help you fight yourself.

if you hate yourself, i have to let you do it alone.

(I like the ending but it paints the narrator as somewhat of a coward or cop out, kinda puts it into a different perspective then the majority of the peice.)
Originally posted by the best of...
Vin Diesel was once asked if he believed in the idea of reincarnation. His response was simply "I used to be a plate of pancakes."