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Why I stay1.
every day you wake me
with a gentleness
I did not know you possessed
you are waiting at the door
stamping your feet
on the frozen ground,
with your bone white teeth
there is a restlessness going around,
something I think
borne of this winter air
I am filled with a longing
not lustful, nor painful,
but rather like a constant
from every direction
as if the particles themselves
that compose my body
are becoming detached
tired of the tension, the constant
push to shove
to deserve your love
We are both foreigners in a house we once shared.Reacquaint me:
your mother died last year; my boyfriend has left.
You wring your hands beneath the table, where you think
I cannot see. I refuse
to care; instead I
line up lovers
between bites of toast.
You've taken to staying out
late, I've taken
to sleeping early. We exchange
carefully chosen words-- the ones
clipped of meaning.
here we are, breathing the same city air,
both of us trying to seize our own brands
of happiness. Yet what is that
but a passing shadow of sun?
In the darkening afternoon
it illuminates us
at our prime. We can no more
than we can trap
the loves of our lives
to our side.
Reacquaint me: let us burn, let us shiver.
These days I am closerThese days I am closer to the place--
I've wanted to remember
for years. These days
I can sometimes smell
the salt of the sea
I catch a glimpse of a small girl,
a blonde pixie cut;
I catch a glimpse of her white slip
and feel the cool and life-filled chill
of early morning biting
I see a window overlooking the bustling
downtown street below.
In the quiet of morning
in this stillness of time
I am close
it is hard
for a city to sag
you never see the pigeons flee
& when a city can offer
there is no excuse
holding only a question
from years ago
the words have gone
by too many
it is hard
to trust what is left:
a pressing gust
the smallness of a voice
across the still
Necessitiesthe line dips again
into the foaming wake, its feathered hooks
already thin trails of feces
streak their white bellies
they lunge for freedom but
soon can only gulp
is it wrong
to look away?
there, the high sun, there a gull
there, the racers, their white sails
on the horizon
& for a moment
at my feet
it is wrong
to look away
sonnet of a changeling childstale pumpkin spice and cinnamon alight
upon this cold expansion of damp air
this untouched day before it trips the snare;
what simple turns can mark the fae's soft flight.
and of this changeling child on wheat-bare earth
who'll flit from fold to field at merry whim?
a swaying dance upon a tree's high limb
will beckon over every call to hearth.
today a brisk and rapid north gust flings
him from his perch within the sweeping oak:
a fallen boy with bruises fresh, and yet--
what mother's hand can pin his fledgling wings
when swath in autumn's auburn leaflined cloak
he'll flee: a seed, a passing silhouette.
to Yellow Plumto Yellow Plum (in blue
afternoon's slit of sun slips
between thick curtains
& woos you to ripeness.
it chooses you
not for flecks of honey-russet
held low in your seam of shadows,
nor your symmetry & swell;
you slink in shade, sink
behind green pear & clementine
& cannot hide
from each spear of light
against these lips
a tea-stain stone
the trashbin floor.
It is enough that I sit here gently
rocking, every glass still
undrunk these quiet
hours, my face
unzippered, my skin
discarded on the floor;
the sigh of the fridge, the creaks
UntitledVanquished wastelands, xeric: yesterday's Zion.
Soil, sunbaked, caves and crumbles. Fossilized boughs line the bank and strain deep into the river's hollow belly, feeling phantom water; they do not know the tight rations of survival to last them through such a blight, and stretch and seek with abandon. Each fruitless endeavour comes as unexpected, induces another strenuous effort.
Sunset teeters, ubiquitous.
Like a coin balanced on the rim of the land, it toys with the temptation of the fall. From time to time it is struck by its own delirium, and licks the edge with a soot-blackened tongue-- but does not waver, does not bow its head in the least. It has made a bet with the earth; which will outlast the other?
Nearer, osprey perch: querulous, resisting.
One has just caught a plump fish, a rare event that merits not celebration but deep-rooted suspicion. The fish are few, and t
Change this lifeHiding in the shadows
Resisting in secrecy
Trying to find a way
To change this life of misery
The future is unknown
The past is to forget
The present is dull and boring
Is this what life has to offer?
I want to change
And I keep trying
Only to fail miserabily
Every single time
eight ways you've made me small1. I wish
this was for you.
2. my journal pages - the
brown one with all our monologues -
were jarred with hollow vows of
last poems of
letting you slip into a coma
of bad memories, watching you
fall to your death off
a cascading cliff of disease
and dis ease.
it was never
easy for me
3. there's a reason I ask
whether you're grey
(dark white, elusively black, in between)
or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,
whateverthefuck runs through the back of my
palms); I'd rather have
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly. you had always been
my harmony and I
would have killed
to have been yours.
4. it could never have been just me, the way
it could never have been just
5. disasters are not beautiful,
but how is it that you
managed to make my inner linings
converge into bows
and explode into wings the very
night you decided to rebuild your walls
to a lower height?
6. I wish
when i stimulated the prayers of rib-beat
when i licked the temple of my teeth,
speed pushed my fingers shaped like confessionals
clasped holy, carved my throat to fixing-
lover; i did this for the anthem of your eyes,
the feel of strangled feet crushing the fame of stars
for the glow of streetlight worship, for the moons
of your crooning throat, for the halls of your arms,
the strayed revels of your arms,
lover: you manufactured a god out of the drugs i used
and had me addicted to the divine, to the dignity of music
you pressed in my direction: just what i am, hallelujah,
marijuana, day and night-
lover, i fell in love with your culture
that preached the real definition of dusked kneecaps,
the plea of closeted throats, the whisper of bless,
unlearning how to say please god in borrowed tongue,
i fell in love with your attention, nervous grace
lover. i levied the rubble of my sins
Even The City KnowsIs it at all easy?
Being by yourself, I mean.
Sitting in a car, on a train, on a bus--wherever you might be now, isn't it hard to be a drifter?
There are no men with newspapers, no women with strollers, no love-crazy teenagers, no annoying toddlers, no anybody.
You stare out the window, like there are people out there, calling your name. The trees are out there, and they've lost all their leaves, all their buds--they've lost everything, just like you.
The sky is out there, and it's gray and colorless, just like you.
The stars are out there, and they're so blown-out-of-proportion, and they're just like you, too.
But the trees, the skies, the stars, they're used to being left alone.
You lack the ebullience of your drink, but it, too, is fading.
Frost has gathered on windows, on the ground, on rivers, everywhere.
Frost comes and goes, just like you, when you finally melt away.
The city draws to darkness and quiet--it disappears, just like you.
But, even frost
on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl
Whenever I hurt myselfI have a feeling
Someone is watching
So I look around
But there's no one to be found
A lifeA life
Death to the LoversHe screamed,
He tore his hair from his scalp;
But it didn't bring her back.
The beautiful girl
With the gorgeous smile
And witty remarks
Would always lay six feet under.
She would lie in her death bed,
Her arms folded on her chest
And her face full of peace
Known only to the dead.
He would be the first to rot.
First his health,
Then his sanity.
She would forever feed on his emotions
Like a pretty little leech,
Sapping his well being
And happiness from her underground world.
And he would let her,
For a fool like him
Who allowed himself to love,
Synesthesia - III have learned not to say
when your voice burns under my tongue -
learned not to shiver
at the cold of sirens on the street -
learned not to describe
the pricks and strokes and touches.
I have learned that skin cannot hear,
nor ears feel
(whichever it is).
How strange to think:
I may travel all my life
and never find a lover who can hold my laugh in his palms.
then I am left with the king:
the plastic clicks as he thuds back and forth
and the pawn
who can only look forward
is still stuck
then I must decide:
the quick and painless way
into the pocket of white guards ahead,
or should I instead keep running
in frantic circles,
tighter and tighter?
I see triumph in your eyes and instead I--
lost in the web
of strategies I will never know
losing a game I've never known how to win
I call defeat
there is a metaphor there
and something about life
and the other people
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More