A Long Feature Because I've been Neglecting--

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furniture dustthe curves of my lips have memorized
the knife of your tongue - chop me to
rubble until
i am furniture dust
in a house that you never called home.
i swore to all my deepest insides
that i would never again weave words about you,
but i was fucking lonely.
i made myself your prostitute
of attention,
swore to cling to you while you pressed
your ribs into me, pointy.
the hum of memories in my guts
played me the symphony you wrote
into my lungs without even thinking.
the parallel marks on the inside of
my forearm whispered your habits
and reminded me that you are more
than just a set of teeth & smooth skin.
you manifested yourself until you were willpower
and i regret that my lack of control
comes back to visit me
like the ghost of my childhood
whenever your scent lingers beneath my nose
just strong enough to fool me into thinking i want you.
remember: i am furniture dust.
you don't need to auction me off again.
this time, i will own myself.

"the hum of memories in my guts
played me the symphony you wrote
into my lungs without even thinking.
the parallel marks on the inside of
my forearm whispered your habits
and reminded me that you are more
than just a set of teeth & smooth skin."

Cool Bonus: soundcloud.com/isawjackstorm/i… (recording collab)


JackIn my 57th year there was Jack
grey curls, leggy and long,
scratchy-chinned
and warm as August
from head to thigh.
"You're the best thing
and the worst thing
that ever happened to me,"
he whispered into the night
giving love in parentheses,
and I fit just under his arm.
"We should have met
when we were young,"
he said, my hands tracing
the broad spring of his chest.
"This is going to be hard."
Air dry as cotton.
Heart, too heavy to fly.

""You're the best thing
and the worst thing
that ever happened to me,"
he whispered into the night
giving love in parentheses,
and I fit just under his arm."


:thumb354752132:
"I'm up on the twelfth floor, the roof level,
of the abandoned Plaza Grecia Hotel,
and I'm watching them while I eat
soup out of a can with two fingers wrapped in cellophane.
They pause, and trade places, and the nervous
little bucking continues as I roll tobacco
pilfered from half smoked cigarettes
into a zag, and by the time they're done,
I'm full and smoking satisfied."



"She drew a line across your hand
and said something;
I wish I could have heard

Was it promise
of love,
a trip,
of lifelong happiness?

Something about 15 years
or maybe 19 dollars;
I may have misheard her"


:thumb354790165:
"you will teach me how to reverse this network
of clockwork dreams, how simple mathematics can be
when calculating the degree of loneliness in countered white
virgin affairs- crippled calligraphy."


Neapolitan.tonight I am going to write,
with copper in my belly and
a monsoon outside my window
about how I will be forever
not-quite-myself, because I never was
in the first place
i.
you said you wanted dialogue, dialogue
without madness or brooding
'I freeze'
nothing to say,
nothing to think,
empty empty
ii.
'one thinks best in the shower'
so I tried
and thought just
about how I cannot think
what is wrong with me
iii.
and I need to talk
to someone;
I cannot drive miles in
this car
without someone
to revive me
iv.
maybe I cannot think
about things the way you do
I curl into a ball
and shut myself out
in the garden
v.
I can neither speak nor
cry
in the right tones;
I cannot match my
thoughts, because
they do not match my
heart
vi.
you love me more
than I do myself
and I cannot do it right
I cannot be as I ought
or as I want
because I do not
understand

"maybe I cannot think
about things the way you do

I curl into a ball
and shut myself out
in the garden"



"i am not the first or only,
but i love a boy.

he is not the one i curl up to
at night;
he is not the body i let
enter mine.
his eyes are all right
and bright
and verdant-
i will awaken to smiling ural brown."


WoodstoveWoodstove
It was cold.
A sudden crackle,
the snap of flame
and red warmth spread through the room
from the staunch, cast-iron woodstove
huddled in a corner
by the rocking chair.
Its glass window was blackened
with soot, testifying to its unwavering service
defending the house from winter's merciless jaws
with only a few pieces of wood
and some old newspaper.  Nothing
had kept it from its job in all its long years.
Even when the fickle electric neighbors
stopped working,
the woodstove happily gave its warmth for
cooking, heating water,
giving light.
Now the house is empty
and the always-faithful woodstove
has been abandoned,
left to wear cobwebs
and give a house to mice where there once
was fire.
And although outside, it was summer,
it was cold.

"Its glass window was blackened
with soot, testifying to its unwavering service,
defending the house from winter's merciless jaws
with only a few pieces of wood
and some old newspaper."


Mature Content


"to those of us who've been told parts don't have to mean anything:
let's go into the shop.
we can exchange anguishes
and tell stories of the lovers who've touched these busts"



"i should look at a man and see a man, not
the target he might notice on my forehead.

a long livid line of men and none of them
gentle; ones who could brand an animal, but
not nurse it through december or earlybirth;

who have looked bullets through me and
seared their marks puckerugly."


Journey of the Spinal CordRed-green, the arbor-leaf intertwined
with thistle and bergamot in the archways
dangling over the thoroughfare.
Each direction is an odyssean excursion,
fraught with tall-grass uncertainty and
summerwine musings
on meaning in the footfalls
echoing off open country air.
Questions
of science or love, faith or worthiness
are whipping in the maelstrom
just beyond the curvature
where the road gives way to skyline.
I have yet to discover
my line of best fit, but
maybe
it intersects with yours.

"Questions
of science or love, faith or worthiness
are whipping in the maelstrom
just beyond the curvature
where the road gives way to skyline."



"you're a pisces, and i was born
on the most popular day for suicide."


:thumb356281796:
"Or maybe you felt like I was too easy,
too predictable, and my endless sunday morning-coffee
overdosing lifestyle didn't feed your fingers the words
you'd slam into the typewriter. Maybe you really needed me
to anger you into spiraling verses,
until you realized that we spilled the words on the floor
and never bothered to pick them back up."


ReddistBefore you, there were women
with full breasts,
breasts with perk tips and beneath them:
hips wide as my hand spread,
but never love.
Athenas before you,
my eyes only followed the apples;
and then, suddenly:
                 A wild brook unleashed
and I never knew I was a basin
meant to be filled.
                 A woman sewn
from the smile of Coyote,
from the same hands that bent time
and created life for a laugh-
                 Apples became
the sweetest fruit; be my reddist-
I will love you madder
than a hatter and brasher than a miner.
Wilder for a gypsy.

"Athenas before you,
my eyes only followed the apples;
and then, suddenly:

                A wild brook unleashed
and I never knew I was a basin
meant to be filled."


:thumb357002755:
"I say to hell with grammar and spellcheck
and no, I will not properly space that. We are
adults now, and that means no more eating
Cap'n sugar-high-fuck-me Crunch for dinner. It means
I have to wake up at 6am, toss back a few carbs,
and pretend I know what I'm doing for 8 hours."



"a tree does not transform from cherry to peach, and if it did, i do not think it would have the words to tell you.  after all, a broken branch does not remember why it fell."


mayfly in the sinkthe bottle is blue, laced with drops of flies, as i stand, holding it, wishing i were alone. there is no one here i've ever cared to know. here is tripping over flowers like the arms of those around me form a crawspace. a crawspace like in the news gets riddled with congealed blood molding grains of flesh into a mash of deadness. and standing here, pressed against all of that decay, i stumble, kicking my bare feet at dirt and weed flowers.
this outdoor garden smells like pot. hell, i smell like vomit and maybe fear. i remember trying to tear myself away from a wall of flesh, being trapped within it, a fly thrashing against a bottle's sides. i am too stumbling, rotting, destroyed like quiet sounds are when deep, curved basses reverberate the spine. i can't hear.
when i am drunk i know that the world has tossed me out. i grew out of self-pity when i tried to pass, i tried to pass tests and be perfect but then, then there was nothing for me. just an expanse of time. just a lack of directi

"the night looks back and stares. i feel numb but it is better than screaming and being trapped in someone's house, someone i haven't seen in two years. someone who probably doesn't care. i'm glad that bottle is gone, spilled on the floor of his house, i remember, with the sound of the glass breaking and the bzzz of the escaped fly, free somewhere. free to go anywhere."
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FuzzyHoser's avatar
Ooooh...what a humdinger of a feature. :wow:
Thanks for having my and Chai's poem. :heart: