[x]

Dry Swallow--C.You have a nasty habit
of touching me where it bleeds,
ragged fingertips catching
rubbed-raw skin.

There's no scab there;
that wound has never healed,
festering yellow and oozing pus--

and each morning breaks
another plastic seal,
white bottles and tiny blue pills
leaving the bitter taste of almost-tragic
on my tongue.

Swallow dry;
that stuck feeling passes,
replaced by lethargy
and the diluted memories
of a time you made me happy,
when each morning broke
under a red sunset, the sheets
strewn around us.

It's fantasy now,
but I still feel the weight of you
during quiet moments.

Apocolypse Road -- CLet's take the apocalyptic road
and get lost along the way;
your gunpowder and lead eyes,
heavy-handed
with the ghosts
of past mistakes,
will get us into trouble here
and I'm not ready
to say goodbye to you
just yet.

but some things are inevitable,
like the silence waiting hungrily
at the end of the earth
once time comes to a close,
and in this warped world
(in this final play)
we won't part to closing curtains
and applause,
but bitter quiet,
and one final touch from your broken lips.

There's a hurricane,
loud
and shaking my bones,
and it's ebbing
to the beat of your name
in my veins,
but you're a Prince
reincarnate

Stepping StonesI rip pages
out of poetry books,
the titles of
Shakespeare
and Plath
and Dickinson
littering the floor
like trash,
and I wonder
if we don't all
wind up stepping stones
in the end.

untitledseducing the writer
is pointless;
he'll seduce himself
if you're silent.

the poem i never wrotei’ve got four fingers on each hand
to count and recount the carnal instinct of familiarity.

i have kissed you out of the liveliness of the moon
and her returning blanket of sea, like the softness & quietude

of your eyelid’s atlantic flutter. like the blue dream of sky
that extends the cover of your vagrant esteem. your heart,

gypsy to the cadence of likeness domestic of catholic balance
gingerly, ever able and oh so nomadic

extends the voice of its beat as small as the world
and as vast as our amalgamated essentiality. sunly

is you by which i am reborn, and time fails us
where the aim of waking is to dream.

i’ve got

on essencebut first, kiss my dopamine--

rest your untiring hands on this swelled belly: feel me
as i swallow oceans whole enough
to condensate these north pacific skies, and accept
petrichor’s last offering.

so kindly are these breaths
left to lay rest
on the beds of noetic trees, let us watch
as they breathe,
let us watch as they breathe;

tasting the oxygen
swirling at the back of our throats:
life.

i love how simply the lull of your voice
bathes me in laconic moonlight
how this longing slows time two degrees below
the sixth of listening to mountains grow

pieced is this slow-beating
apologetic metronome, teethed and
sweetheart these
were

the birth of strugglelisten: we are but simply
listlessly drunken tragic historians, and these

jaded bones seek to unravel
the space in time between antediluvian soil

and ingested sun. they seek
to measure, reinvent, and project the reciprocal

cause and effect of our beings as sound. they
coil and ignite, purging cortexial limbs by flame

of hedonistic tendency and
incandescent prowl. the ash of this poetry

will be teemed unclosed to undone,
scattered and doubled in the design of the sacrificial eyes

of Dajabón. we parry what is perceivable
by essence; the toned actuality of naked

light, and shelve our disclaim by means
of the lapsing efficienc

a streetcar to nowherei.

he must crack
when his hands are tulle:

paling dry,
rough and tearing,
bought by the yard
or cent-marked minute,

spin a skirt
that won't last a winter,

shed bohemia
and snort ballerinas,
hope he's flexible

like tulle:

thin and shimmering,
don't stay another minute,
clear the aisles and say,

halloween's over
and he must crack
when his hands are tulle:

quivering
wind-burnt dancers,
caught aflame
by a craving spark

like tulle:

crisp and seething,
acrid burning,
black waste and thin ash

ii.

"name,
like your real name or
just something i can call you,
something that won't make me

feel like i'm talking down
to you. not because
i r

Pounding MelodiesThere's a song on the wind I can't work out;
it makes me long to back out, disappear.
There are ghosts in the trees; I'm full of doubt.
Bravery is more than battling fears.

There's a tune on the breeze I wish I knew;
the words taunt me from a place I can't name.
From deep in my soul, I bid hope adieu;
the lyrics are broken, never the same.

There's a melody here I just might lose;
it tastes of nightmares, of lullabies lost.
There's more to this than what I need to prove,
but that doesn't mean my pride's not the cost.

There's a song on the wind; it screams of death...
I don't want to hear it. I'll hold my breath.

Apocalypse Road--C.Let's take the apocalyptic road
and get lost along the way;
your gunpowder and lead eyes,
heavy-handed
with the ghosts
of past mistakes,
will get us into trouble here
and I'm not ready
to say goodbye to you
just yet.

but some things are inevitable,
like the silence waiting hungrily
at the end of the earth
once time comes to a close,
and in this warped world
(in this final play)
we won't part to closing curtains
and applause,
but bitter quiet,
and one final touch from your broken lips.

There's a hurricane,
loud
and shaking my bones,
and it's ebbing
to the beat of your name
in my veins,
but you're a Prince
reincarnate

Dust SettlingI need to be honest, darlin';
you haven't cleaned the dust
from the shelves of your heart
in too long.

I left fingerprints there,
once...
but the ridges I see now
don't belong to me.

So,
who is she?

ChirpHow have you lived,
thinning in your porcelain,
and so easily?

The world is blowing figurines from glass,
politely spinning
in its warm glowing beard,
cells tearing off
into the Plan. You’re just another souvenir,
a mute objector, a cleft in time kept hidden from the cold,
and not long for anything.

What is it that does not endure
and still becomes a voice?
On the far end of myself
your hair is worn by nothing.

How do you live?

Some new tragic hope will come,
appropriate my will.
Your haunted choir of crickets
will vanish from the radio
and I will not mourn their silence.

I’ll feel the rough hewn stitch of new calen

Eighteight.
i felt most violated
when you denied it—
evidence may have mounted
in the mouths of other victims
but i haven't spoken—
even in the wake of certainty,
family and loyalty
forked my liar's tongue—
maybe it's enough
that you know what you did—
because i can't bring myself
to hate you.

seven.
your son's beautiful—
you were my first
and i don't regret that—
in your arms,
i realized myself.

six.
it wasn't my fault—
i received the letter
years too late
and suicide
has never been sympathetic
in the eyes of those
who suffered to live—
yet, i write for you,
remember your face acutely,
long fo

novemberthe sun is a dim pearl
beneath a blanket of gray
hung low from the heavens;

i'm your yellow tremor
paled by the cold, aching
for a proper sunrise.

dialogue of the tidesI.
the tumult,
water.

II.
mercurial steadfast

III.
in seashells, expanses.

IV.
ruthlessly, home.

V.
oceans underfoot – everywhere.

VI.
architect of thirst

VII.
softest,
oldest
endurance

VIII.
windblown light, steeped.

IX.
seabed:
eroded engines.

X.
savage – albatross –

XI.
crag of solace

XII.
looking glass– jungle.

XIII.
perpetually
unearthed.
restless

XIV.
rust, aglow

XV.
contrary,
sanctuary– ?

XVI.
beloved unkempt unknown

XVII.
no pearl: oyster?

XVIII.
artless deep

XIX.
whales, stones –
trembling.

XX.
seeking, you exist.

XXI.
renegade harbour

XXII.
persistence:
abandoned always

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More from *glossolalias

for those daysyou learn how to tie a fishing knot and
how to stand firm in the swaying and
how to cast your line without snagging
and how to keep your mouth shut
about what happened on the boat,

and you learn not to ignore but to forget
until it's upon you, and you close your
eyes; sweat has tasted bitter since,

but you learn to stomach salt, and when
the quiet cannot soothe, your veins writhe
for answer, and you learn to stop the world;
your heart beats long and loud and slow—

sometimes, you miss that acute blink.

then you learn to crawl again, to cope,
to hold on with two sober hands
and catch your own falls. you learn
to say someth

mornings and eveningsin the morning, your eyes are
blue like our bedroom walls
and your skin is fresh and your
hands are softest and never
soft—

but in the evening, your eyes
are hazel, framed by your
reddened face and my hair.

treesbarest street,
stolen of green
and drenched in late
summer heat—

at the end of the block,
i count christmas
lights in a bin that
once sat empty beside
your drive, and you say—

it's a shame, that they
had to take the trees;
insects and all that shit—

and i regard the mulch
and empty stump-hole,
the sun glaring off the
sidewalk, and i say—

it'd be a shame if they
died slowly.

Fidelity—truthfully,
there was a flea
in our bed mixing sheets,
jet carrier of viral reach;
it whispered marburg and
your name,
spoke of bats it had known
and the shade of skin
between your ear and scalp.

"his hair, divine in length,
has bore us many sons,
and you've never known a man
until you've known his swelter-blood."

tea leavesyour color
collects at
the bottom
of my mug,
green sickly
and letting
my teeth stain—

ivory,
you loved me
homogenous.

sunsetsand today i walked downstairs
to fetch the tea leaves my neighbor
offered, and she's a kind woman with
a smile she carefully fashioned
on the evenings spent watching
the sun fall and leave its color behind—

she said to me as i sealed the plastic bag
that i must not brew it boiling, and it's delicate
like her skin, and when she was young, she lived
in arkansas and her accent remains when
the sun falls and leaves its color behind—

tonight, i inhale vapor and notice the sky
mirrors her eyes in the dusk, when blue
becomes acquainted with gold and the clouds
freckle her skin in faint orange blotches—

the sun fell and

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[x]

Dry Swallow

by *glossolalias, Dec 21, 2012, 8:28:03 PM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

You have a nasty habit
of touching me where it bleeds,
ragged fingertips catching
rubbed-raw skin.

There's no scab there;
that wound has never healed,
festering yellow and oozing pus—

and each morning breaks
another plastic seal,
white bottles and tiny blue pills
leaving the bitter taste of almost-tragic
on my tongue.

Swallow dry;
that stuck feeling passes,
replaced by lethargy
and the diluted memories
of a time you made me happy,
when each morning broke
under a red sunset, the sheets
strewn around us.

It's fantasy now,
but I still feel the weight of you
during quiet moments.

Dry Swallowby *glossolalias

Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

this is a collab with the incredibly talented

please check out her version, as well, which can be found here: [link]

if you're not already watching her, please fix that.

=EvelynTaliette Dec 25, 2012 Student Writer

Wonderful. Now that I think about it, a gone-sour lover does tend to feel like a wound that never heals. You go through the same routine to just make it scar already- the reluctance, the lethargy, the wish that you could just be past all of this already. Very relatable. Well done!

*glossolalias Dec 26, 2012

thank you.

~Summonaconjurer Dec 22, 2012

So relatable, which I think is the best thing about it... and it's written with thought, like you actually know someone like this, or you are someone like this... my point being it feels genuine = )

*glossolalias Dec 22, 2012

thank you

=TwilightPoetess Dec 21, 2012

Thank you so much for working with me on this! I had a lot of fun collaborating with you; we should do it again in the future!

Also, that's the first time I've reshaped and remolded a piece so much in the collaborating process--I enjoyed the experience!

*glossolalias Dec 21, 2012

we should! this went so smoothly. it was more like writing with myself than someone else, haha.

maybe we can work on that scrap of mine another day x)

=TwilightPoetess Dec 21, 2012

Yes, for sure! I'm always up for collaborating, so whenever you feel up to it, just let me know. ^.^

*glossolalias Dec 21, 2012

gotcha x)

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