Sta.sh
this journal and read the other works. now, onto the main event—"Cup met saucer with a slight clatter. Hands trembling again, Moira set the tea aside on the coffee table in front of her then reached for her purse. It had wedged a little into a corner of the sofa and she had to tug at the strap a little to get it clear. He knew about the crayon. Oh God. Oh God. No one knew about the crayon. Jess was right. He was the real deal! Hope soared in her breast, made her heart thump painfully. She fumbled with the clasp, fished the treasured possession from its nest of soft tissue and handed it to him."
Joseph and the Coatjoseph is the boy who never says goodbye. it is his own form of sodium: unstable, explosive. his lungs can't bear the reaction, so he draws scientific equations on my hips with fingers charred black by impromptu experiment and violent chemical. he is the scientist driven mad by belief, and i am the coat slung haphazardly over his shoulder, humming with unbridled tension.
together, we explode.
"he is the scientist driven mad by belief, and i am the coat slung haphazardly over his shoulder, humming with unbridled tension."
Lonelinessbeneath scaffolds
it is hard
for a city to sag
from afar
you never see the pigeons flee
& when a city can offer
such warmth
there is no excuse
to leave
holding only a question
from years ago
& when
the words have gone
rubbed blank
by too many
lingering thumbs
it is hard
to trust what is left:
a pressing gust
the smallness of a voice
across the still
evening water
"& when
the words have gone
rubbed blank
by too many
lingering thumbs"
AnagramsI:
Jays walking across
An auburn sky, fall froze. Lined
Leaves blazing soft, a shade to blood raged storms.
Why does she still stroll? : wood bones rattle from
(Ours) that tick: Nature sings a lullaby
as she lies by his deathbed, she
Coughs; warm lips are red, but
Kind winds blow in frost.
II:
Albatross! Your angel wings roar
Guised as the phoenix rose.
Poised, you dwell in tar-pitched skies, a moor
Floating on blue depths: it dozed
Anxiously, flying in palace air
Dancing at violet dusk:
Whirling, her tango plumes have flair,
And he? Well, no one wanted his velvet musk.
Rise my queen, for my ink describes you not!
I, the pr
"Albatross! Your angel wings roar
Guised as the phoenix rose.
Poised, you dwell in tar-pitched skies, a moor
Floating on blue depths: it dozed
Anxiously, flying in palace air"
the glass jardancing with mary
was like keeping several
galaxies in a jar closed tight;
we took a peek for just
a moment and the image of
stars and nebulae were forever
imprinted on our retinas.
we liked to think
that if we turned off the lights
and looked inside we might find
meteors, fireflies, paper planes,
cranes, sheet music, teacups,
soggy books, broken hearts,
broken pianos, those fifty cents
i gave to that homeless man
last tuesday. we might find
a glimpse of our future, together
or not together. in love,
or not in love. we might be druggies,
or prostitutes, bus drivers, cancer
researchers, secretaries, teachers
(if i am a teacher i will corrupt
the minds of all children, i will
let them think with their hearts
and not their minds
and this will destroy them all)
"(if i am a teacher i will corrupt
the minds of all children, i will
let them think with their hearts
and not their minds
and this will destroy them all)"
lower_casei have not read enough poetry
and i am not one to muse
or maybe think
but i do have
a question
i am one student in a freshman course
who wonders
why so many poets use only
lower case
is it artistic
is it sexy
to write as if
you do nothing but whisper
i want to be loud
i want
the survivors of death
to remember me
i will not mutter
like a fetus
trapped
undeveloped
perhaps there is
nothing to this
technicality
but there is value
in knowing how to yell
and in absolute
silence.
"i will not mutter
like a fetus
trapped
undeveloped"
summer person‘You’re a summer person’, she’ll say to you one day
and you’ll take it like a compliment.
the fucking sap you are
inhaling the stained oxygen from the fringed tassels of her dress.
it’s an ugly pattern,
but you
tell her she’s beautiful
all the same.
it’s no compliment to be told you’re like summer
Not to her.
summer is birth and hot and wet
in the searing raindrops of
Venetian sunsets
and you are this to her.
your mind will pick through it later
her
ambiguity
and pretend to understand
just what the hell that beautiful bitch of yours
meant.
you’ll liken it to her favourite flower
"you'll liken it to her favourite flower
blossoming on summer deserts
or the refreshing burst
of a dearly departed sun
blinking through clouds that whip
like mangy horses' tails
thrown
to the wind"
therapy is another word for coffinI crave the touch of your bag-body
like the filthy mouth of the faucet
craves mold and sediment.
My fists quaver in their pockets
like the leaves drooping from the only house-plant
I have managed to keep alive;
like the earth that splatters dark and warm
onto the kitchen floor
in a myriad of ceramic pieces.
"My fists quaver in their pockets
like the leaves drooping from the only house-plant
I have managed to keep alive;"
Mother Of AllCool orange groves, illustrate summer heat
under the scintillating star, touching the smallest
twig or a tomtit's claw, lulled by ever-long infancy
forth a new blossom of every possible living thing;
something you cannot will or will away.
Even the least sensitive person acquires a fine taste for mother earth;
less gay but more passionate, more brilliant, more durable
than love. Interrelated energy spurs through bodies, akin to move out of
ourselves, into a world of an empty brain that becomes delight, mother
nature, the narrative of us, mother of all, shouting out humans for sale
when death comes knocking.
"Even the least sensitive person acquires a fine taste for mother earth;
less gay but more passionate, more brilliant, more durable
than love."
Flower FishWritten after Harrison
(George Harrison Ford)
His eyes are like a red ring of tiny blossoms
springing from patterned navy beds.
With a sharp twist through the water he fans out behind him
a bouquet of tall violet fronds,
a forest, a ballooning flamenco skirt
tapering white at the edges.
It is hard to tell where the tail ends and the fish starts,
like an enhancement attached all around his body
crowning him,
he is so much lesser without the tail,
so much smaller, just a blue-black comma.
Motionless, suspended in the water with
tissue-paper fins undulating,
he might as well have earned his place beside the
stolid shot glass
"he is so much lesser without the tail,
so much smaller, just a blue-black comma.
Motionless, suspended in the water with
tissue-paper fins undulating,
he might as well have earned his place beside the
stolid shot glass that accompanies his tank."
love 1
1
joy 0
0
wow 0
0
mad 0
0
sad 0
0
fear 0
0
neutral 0
0
