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Literature Text
I discovered a man
who makes me feel incomparable
the same way Columbus discovered America:
he existed beforehand and was probably better off
without a directionally challenged sociopath,
no matter what those Thanksgiving crafts
peddle to Neoamerican children.
Regardless, his persistence
withstood my apathetic exterior,
and I like his music even if I don't say it,
"You're okay," translates to something meaningful,
"Pretty great," says exceptional, "I'm really senstive,"
adresses that he knows what he's doing
with his tongue, his lips, his cock,
and ten competent fingers,
but now I'm making excuses. I have a big nose,
countable ribs, narrow hips, an ass like a sheet of drywall,
a shipful of charisma, countless manipulations,
social ineptness, political anxiety,
and over a thousand pages
of writing, which,
for the record,
in case he doesn't get it:
that's a lot of emotional bullshit,
and about half of it is melodramatic, petty,
unsubstantiated stories about my life and activities,
the people who didn't deserve a fuck you,
at least a dozen flat out lies,
too many semicolons,
and it was never that bad,
even when it was.
I'm rambling. And he does too,
about instruments and music and bands and
conspiracies and relatives and stardom
and gossip and guitar tones and
movies I hardly watched,
television I dismissed
without reason,
he's smarter than I thought.
His inadequacies are mostly imagined. His rhythm
is what my poetry wishes it was made of,
and while he's a pretentious jackass
who smokes too much weed,
I think his trainwreck
is more on track
than mine,
but I escaped high school without
this butterflies-in-stomach syndrome,
an ache for another's affirmations,
no Facebook Official Showboat,
real prom dates, homecoming,
lovemaking, stupid poetry,
or inexplicable giggling,
no desire to be anyone's
something,
but his drumming isn't annoying,
his family seems saner than mine,
when he laughs it makes me want to,
and looking into his eyes
isn't uncomfortable,
not even a little,
tiny bit.
Literature
On strength
A sunlit cobweb -
only the spider knows
how many times
it broke
Literature
sleep
the boy with the kaleidoscope hands
offers me a revolver and we take turns
smothering plumes of breath and killing
lapselands.
bags of grieving skeletons hang from your
cliff eyes, dreading the moment
when they will have to fly.
Literature
Beasts
how can women
house these winter thorns
in their chests
without becoming
beasts? the soft and
heavy black stretch
of wanting, the bluebells
that grew in the warmth
of his sleeping breath, a dark
million miles of silence
how can a woman
bear it? that ache
for light
against wilderness
as he burns and
strikes fires in the dark
the ache to sit and be
warm in his spit and
his glow, his warm
body, his warm mouth
as the wet of the
woods falls quiet
...
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i am actually just a dork. jsyk.
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Comments15
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Dat first stanza tho. I read it out loud to the boyfriend and even he had to pry himself away from his work to read some more (he didn't read it all, sadly, he tl;rd-ed it). Oh dat first stanza.