Toss
Spinning catharsis like coins,
cerebral, these cortexes of ours.
Making answers that pirouette clumsily between
crisscrossed fingers, charting panorama dreams.
Without two currents to pull the stream,
these leaves won’t sink too deeply.
Spinning catharsis like coins,
cerebral, these cortexes of ours.
Making answers that pirouette clumsily between
crisscrossed fingers, charting panorama dreams.
Without two currents to pull the stream,
these leaves won’t sink too deeply.
I will not be just a tourist in a world of images.
— Anais Nin (via ikhlasincere)
(Source: sir-pikachu, via sleepyeyes)
I tried in vain
to change the waves of your brain
like a moon made of salt
could be crushed in a dream.
I didn’t want to go outside.
You didn’t want to come in.
You watered the garden,
tilled our beds apart.
You hardened into a bulb
of sunned shit in my heart.
You’re right, that was gross.
I shouldn’t be so presumptuous.
Let’s say we just faded away
dandelion spirits in windy May.
So nice. And sweet. We’ll stay.
In vain.
This is my emotional blog. It’s passive aggressive and often moody. Sometimes good things show up on it. Sometimes bad things come from people reading it. For that, I am sorry.
Consider it flattering that I’ve thought so much about you that you’ve manifested in my subconscious and from that you or someone like you was recreated in a poem or a prose poem or just a flat out rant. I deal with creativity. Not slander.
I am not who you know.
With love,
Amanda
Numbtonguejealousywhatthehelliswrongwithme?
Who am I kidding? The kissing was misplaced passionfruit toxic juice spilling its milk all over the floor, so premature. So ripe. So not right. The stubble you rub with a razor smooth like the edges of your teeth when you don’t smile to me. Behind your lips, the hum of the bees moved from your knees to our grieves. Gray like your eyes. Could never convince me otherwise. And your throat, like your thighs, were touched with lie-lie-lies. Three times a day if we wanted. So odd what a break-up can make you say? Isn’t it my dear? Is.nt.it.my.dear? And we’re still just tongue deep in your ear, my words…
-for the Scandinavian wielding hammer to heart.
A wet sponge in a porcelain tub,
Sinking, saturated, fully wanting unlove,
my memory would feel less redundant of.
1. A vast retraction of the tide. Its grand divorce from the moon. All seven bodies of water land within the custody of Earth’s womb.
2. Invest in a mirror, trap self in mirror, break mirror in sun. May every glare remind all who weren’t there when the lights were on.
3. Replayed and overdubbed, the siren bemoans her song. A dirge, the words, her gentle tone, gilted in wrong.
You want to know soul?
Tell me, where is your kitchen? Take me there, child. And take a listen.
Are you strong, sweet one? Can you take up all those dishes?
Answers quickly, now. We can’t have a single one missin’.
Break that fine glass there in the road while I steal your shoes.
Give your eyes to my hands and let me lead you
‘til the China bowl street tenderizes your foolish meat.
Step easy, dearest. It’s not for the masses. Or the weak.
You simple flower. And those lavender eyelids.
Too quickly overgrown in
Thoughtfulness and doily folded lashes.
It is in the heart of the beholder, inhibited by social blockades and iron soldiers…get yer permits for neuro-transit before it’s too late to…
The smallest piece of matter in the center of the platter, when served by mother hatter, will always explode. The mushrooms and clouds people’s choke-out-loud mouths sputter truth claims and gnomes.
Myfirstimpulsewasright, but iwentwiththeunknown. Instead. What. of. thoughtfulness. Instead. What. I. said. Instead. What. of. flames. and porcupine heads?
What they say is true: The deeper the shelter, the darker the rooms.
Were those bell tower sighs you heard —?— as the hum of my car turned off your street, silent with distance, by the big old tree — the only reason I remembered where you’d be.
Were those bell tower chimes you felt for in your pocket while I mumbled out my day, rolled off my socks and touched my toes to the linoleum space between the carpet and your bed?
Were those crucifixes you hid in your shoulders? Were those psalms in a palimpsest on your chest?
Were those bell tower nights? That you walked cold-handed and crooked-foot by the lake near my place?
Were those bell towers at all you heard when you tried to keep me from saying dirty words? Tall-walled ideas and chain gang promises — everything you knew I hated.
You knew when I stopped asking, you’d hear them ring.
All in a quick tilt, out before the copper greened.
-for Andrew
They came for the crumbs,
knowing our clumsy fingers
left much to be desired.
The body of the waif,
whose ribs impress outward
in a shrouded plea, waits
to petition our maturity
on knee joint, cutting blood
from heart to feet.
They came for the crumbs,
moaning organ to marrow —
A dirge, a gentle word:
We are alone, the feral.
i.
We were eyeing something to pace:
A pendulum, a face tucked into sleep, Soffee’d nurse’s feet.
Craving a cigarette, like an orgasm — to move with purpose.
Opening and shutting doors, windows, wards,
back and forth, tides, gut and moon,
and great mouths leaping to extraordinary conclusions.
I only want what can be counted on a hand
so the other can ash it, forest fire,
tamed at man’s — Is that what I am?
ii.
You bring me to your lips
like a poet
and make me slick like a comma,
thick like a coma
a phase of sarcoma.
A freckle we didn’t fear.
A freckle I kissed.
‘Something to cry over,’
you instructed that night
with whiskey-beard confidence.
A palpitated swagger while passing
Memory Lane.
‘You waste breath with that shit.’
iii.
I want something new.
I want something you and something new.
When your time moves faster than mine.
We are old. Wrinkled. Used. Health and flu.
Rose red, violet blue.
Death is latex hyacinth. An impotent muse.
iv.
They won’t make a movie about this.
With my being such an ugly crier and all.
With freeze dried street fight nowhere on my face.
‘Focus.’
Find your axis
in a gurney wheel.
Fortune turning fast, reeling at corners.
The devil and I getting dizzy.
They, white waistcoats and legs, shuffle us by green-arrow exit signs.
Every one three, two, one paces from the next.
‘You can wait here.’
Among the linoleum.
v.
And like clockwork -
minute and hour,
syncopated dissonance,
this UV intermission
dims into a candlelit dinner set
for one.
My best friend belongs in a little glass globe. Like this Mapparium.
dnt hv tm fr vwls r mch ls, rlly.
Paranoid about a legacy that doesn’t exist and may never. Paranoid about an annotated bibliography with a biography on it. Paranoid about the way the air conditioner has made my nose run in this arid climate. Paranoid about eating key lime pie and not being able to write poetry in lines that make people want to tie a silk-scarf noose around their neck and die happily, complete. Enjambed between perceptions’ dreamscapes that move like cardboard waves on a theater set. Jump. Hurdles. Wake. We shall have a wake. en media res. All I want is a place to wait. And write the lies of a legacy. Sans late.
Oatmeal = Porridge.
For what possible ends to these wastes where true light never was, nor any upright thing, nor any true foundation, but only these leaning things, forever lapsing and crumbling away, beneath a sky without memory of morning or hope of night. These things, what things, come from where, made of what? And it says that here nothing stirs, has never stirred, will never stir, except myself, who do not stir either, when I am there, but see and am seen. Yes, a world at an end, in spite of appearances, its end brought it forth, ending it began, is it clear enough?
- Molloy, Samuel Beckett, 36
