Les vieillards m'ont parlé des miracles
Audio file here: http://www.hotlinkfiles.com/files/2211634_ic2bn/llardsm_ontparl__desmiracles.MP3
I had/have the flu while I recorded it, but it didn't make it sound worse IMO. You might be able to notice.
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Irony walked into the room and said “Everything is fine,” but Cynicism only smirked, rolled its eyes and looked away. Continued reading.
False Hope came up from behind and said, “Hey! Living in a world of officious pseudo-intellectuals can be fun!” while finally, Opportunism smiled to itself with an alternative reason why.
You – make friends with the little things in life and I find that somewhat beautiful. In a tragic way, but not like the sorts of little puzzled women of today, slightly lost in the newborn chaos of the world and its rush, the ones whose knowledge all comes from saccharinely religious chain-mails from friends. Except they haven’t been to church in ten years.
Letters from a dying atheist, Summer.
Dear Eugenia, wife.
You never seemed to fail me in life, but my kidneys sure did.
Goodbye!
Sunflowers sprouted from the open sores on your lips and the world laughed at you but you were fine. You keep in mind that those people are like angels hiding faces in the dark, or weary old showgirls whose fingernails turned into spiders long ago.
You might lift your darkened shades and see your perfect golden tan as a disarray of red blotches of painfulness and your lemonade’s ice cubes are far past their melting point but | It matters almost as little, you tell yourself, as one of those annoying habits that hurt your functionality in a way but act as comfort; or how some people tend to confuse poetry with their blog.
There’s still the truth. And if we can’t have any truth, we can always have some cake. Fuck.
Dear Mr. Fenwick, Autumn.
You never did give me that pizza job as a kid, so I could never get that bike I wanted and that girl found a different boyfriend to make up for it. Now I’m in a state of post-rigor mortem. I hope you’re happy, asswipe.
When the beautiful things in life with which you befriend die or get up and leave, you find a way to come to me on the sorts of mornings that seem seamless. And wild weeds grow around my lips to stop me from saying the words I know you need to hear but which I am too afraid to say
so I tuck little seasons into my pockets where you can’t see them and -->
send you off with a smile like it’s off to a drinking gourd.
Dear sister, Winter.
You’re really in for it if Karma turns out to exist. Or Hell.
When I think about how quiet the insides of your face lines look in here, I fall asleep and dream about memories. Like the way dead leaves fall to the ground and die but don’t ever feel sad about it, or the day you told me people are like trees because they never stop growing. And when I wake up, you look at me and wipe snow off my nose and eyelids. You talk about your little friends. I fall asleep a second time.
Dear Father John, Spring.
I hope you were wrong about Hell, because I must have jerked off about a hundred thousand million times in my lifetime.
Irony leaves the room with a soft smile while Cynicism sat and waited, but you knew how to keep them company. You planted parachutes with your smile and the feet below you felt a little more OK.
I had/have the flu while I recorded it, but it didn't make it sound worse IMO. You might be able to notice.
---
Irony walked into the room and said “Everything is fine,” but Cynicism only smirked, rolled its eyes and looked away. Continued reading.
False Hope came up from behind and said, “Hey! Living in a world of officious pseudo-intellectuals can be fun!” while finally, Opportunism smiled to itself with an alternative reason why.
You – make friends with the little things in life and I find that somewhat beautiful. In a tragic way, but not like the sorts of little puzzled women of today, slightly lost in the newborn chaos of the world and its rush, the ones whose knowledge all comes from saccharinely religious chain-mails from friends. Except they haven’t been to church in ten years.
Letters from a dying atheist, Summer.
Dear Eugenia, wife.
You never seemed to fail me in life, but my kidneys sure did.
Goodbye!
Sunflowers sprouted from the open sores on your lips and the world laughed at you but you were fine. You keep in mind that those people are like angels hiding faces in the dark, or weary old showgirls whose fingernails turned into spiders long ago.
You might lift your darkened shades and see your perfect golden tan as a disarray of red blotches of painfulness and your lemonade’s ice cubes are far past their melting point but | It matters almost as little, you tell yourself, as one of those annoying habits that hurt your functionality in a way but act as comfort; or how some people tend to confuse poetry with their blog.
There’s still the truth. And if we can’t have any truth, we can always have some cake. Fuck.
Dear Mr. Fenwick, Autumn.
You never did give me that pizza job as a kid, so I could never get that bike I wanted and that girl found a different boyfriend to make up for it. Now I’m in a state of post-rigor mortem. I hope you’re happy, asswipe.
When the beautiful things in life with which you befriend die or get up and leave, you find a way to come to me on the sorts of mornings that seem seamless. And wild weeds grow around my lips to stop me from saying the words I know you need to hear but which I am too afraid to say
so I tuck little seasons into my pockets where you can’t see them and -->
send you off with a smile like it’s off to a drinking gourd.
Dear sister, Winter.
You’re really in for it if Karma turns out to exist. Or Hell.
When I think about how quiet the insides of your face lines look in here, I fall asleep and dream about memories. Like the way dead leaves fall to the ground and die but don’t ever feel sad about it, or the day you told me people are like trees because they never stop growing. And when I wake up, you look at me and wipe snow off my nose and eyelids. You talk about your little friends. I fall asleep a second time.
Dear Father John, Spring.
I hope you were wrong about Hell, because I must have jerked off about a hundred thousand million times in my lifetime.
Irony leaves the room with a soft smile while Cynicism sat and waited, but you knew how to keep them company. You planted parachutes with your smile and the feet below you felt a little more OK.