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Touchand given that my life is not so much a life
as it is a void, and not so much a void
as a transposition,
three steps away from the
truth of things,
a smear of grease-paint vision,
given that i have spent hours with
my back on the asphalt spine
staring at the pale shell of the sky and
imagining myself as nothing but the
nothing i saw,
the paper-bone annulment of life,
some misstep between
‘born’ and ‘die’,
given all this, i had no choice
but to throw myself down
at the temple of incarnation,
and say before i drowned:
‘oh lord, save me, for i have
lost it all, and i am floating,
and i am falling,
and i am gone’.
at first i offered him blood sacrifice,
or close enough,
stinging tallies of the days
when i could not remember
what it felt like to be alive –
i decorated my skim-milk thighs
and waited for fruit,
or stars, to burst
behind my eyes.
but then i learnt better ways, gentler ways,
things that he gave me, or perhaps
things that i gave him
AcceptI fall into wretchedness
like lovers’ arms. The sting is lost –
the burning lamps of stars begin to fade,
and soft grey muslin is drawn ’cross the
Hello, I say, and pull myself
out of bed; in unison
the atoms of my bones
are yawning their lament.
The eye of the stormPull from me a hundred
thousand things –
unspool with gentle hands,
you who are so sweet
in the needled dark, cold-foot
and rabbit-heart. A hundred thousand
things: my head bowed and heavy
with reverence on your chest, honey
and flowers and flames of a fire
hot and aching and bright, a fire to
sit beside when the
windchimes jangle madly in
let them eat dreamcakethere is a time for revolution, there
is a time to topple the tsar and his tsarina;
there is a time for dirty air in dirty lungs to become
fire, and scorch away brocade, scorch away dead
flesh. the rotting tyrants:
memory, and impasto-thick
grief, like chocolate clogging on the tongue.
they are inseparable, feeding each other grapes with
shoving, sultry fingers, lethargic and
lolling on their thrones.
there is a time to pull down the pillars
and roar like lions as they smash –
and that time
but oh, the people are tired. the people want to sleep.
the people want sugar spun lies, just a little more.
the people are too hungry for falsities melting
in their mouth – their stomachs ache
too much to storm the palace
this star-crust winter night.
cotton-shirt boy. breathing in
my hair, my skin,
stars, planets, i orbit
you. we spin apart.
i am not
Regurgitate.And she talks,
and talks, and talks,
and she is crisply pressed, neatly
dressed, she is an apple of a woman, beneath
her skin there’s snowwhite flesh neat and vitamin
and my lip wobbles, rot-ness pouring
out of the corners of my eyes, black
inkwater smelling of stagnation, a lake of nothing,
and despair is dribbling
from the most intimate corners of my lips,
from the twisted scar where I fell off the swing
age eight, slammed my knee into my jaw and shoved
my teeth through the wet wet meat;
“but – ”, and my voice is cracked
and young and sour-thick, she tells me it
all just comes down to stress, dear, it’s
kindly she tells me all about how I made these stones
in the poisongrotto of my mind, how I built them
with fingers shaking and throat catching, how I built them
atom for atom amidst rainstorms, amidst
wire fences and the muddy coating
of my own fevered
they’re your babies and
Buzzkillcooling swimming hole
dangling rope swing promises
sublime summer fun
breathtaking moment of flight
then alligators surface
2 Haikus - TunnelLight doesn't shine here
Monsters yearning for your blood
Do not give up hope
Just keep on searching
Beating them all back with strength
At the end is light
10 WATCHERS!Oh my freaking god
10 watchers? Thank you all so much!!~
You guys are the best
Yeaay! I made it to ten. :U
It might seem small, but it's so worth it.
That was a haiku I wrote for you guys.
Anyway, thank you guys SO MUCH.
listening to silenceThe party had ended, nothing to do but listen to silence
glitter on her sore and bitten lips still, she listened to silence.
She'd left the boy and he didn't know what to do with himself
anymore. He couldn't muster up tears, so he sat and listened to silence.
Taste of peppermint chewing gum in her mouth and the
woods quiet around her, she was happy as she listened to silence.
The poet sat in front of her computer, and observed the things
her heart sent fizzing to her fingertips, and she listened to silence.
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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