irreplaceable yet unnecessary
leave me in your retrospect
where you found me, unwanted & with a question mark over my head
or a Matchstick, maybe
I'm the fire you started &
couldn't put out
the one you doused &
the One you'll freeze without.
your sleeves drip
reflected constellations
into pools on this rooftop garage
yellow lines between
our feet make the
imposter stars whiter
i will the parking spaces to
narrow.
or for this separation to mean less to me
words are shadows. our
sooty followers, b(l)ack
stabbers
willing captives:
we ache for abuse
chest deep in lava & she wades
deeper in hopes
her name will fly
frantic from your lips
enslaved to your inattention
words are wounds, clumsy
self-scars &
you are the penknife in my right hand
& she prefered her hind leg caught in those
greedy teeth
her trapp-ed-ness : her happiness
his puncture marks & their bittersweet ooze
to hold her; to let her
in her last moments
belong to him
young yellow lines down this, her street
streaked. smudged, maybe.
split. splayed, yet
neon under quivering stars
no el
imination
[a journey, a war, a sickness
a pizza, a joke, a kiss]
hardly shelter
like wishing for longer sleeves
against the bite of the chill
of s p a c e
twin forearm saplings
writhe
&
surge
in a Spring frenzy they shatter each metacarpal
one.after.another.
Gunshots.
Gypsy bones won't contain this reckless green fever.
In Realtime let's grow fonder,
no sense in [still] waiting [still] for daylight to move the shade over to us.
This sky doesn't end;
your eyes stop it
Pray tell:
What keeps you rooted
Keeps you from me
This is just exactly what I saw
Only it looks better in the inside of my head.
You see, the tracks from my brain to my fingers only run one way & they're bloody things, well worn & under-nourished.
Not unlike the faces of starving children.
There's a vacant teepee.
It reminds me of a used firecracker,
just a shell of something brilliant,
the casing of something that used to be more of a something.
Makes me think- we all need some company on the inside to make us whole.
Anyway, the teepee shrugged in the wind & flapped open,
ashes from the inside flew out & swarmed my gasping mouth like
vultures to the freshly dead.
They taste
irreplaceable yet unnecessary
leave me in your retrospect
where you found me, unwanted & with a question mark over my head
or a Matchstick, maybe
I'm the fire you started &
couldn't put out
the one you doused &
the One you'll freeze without.
your sleeves drip
reflected constellations
into pools on this rooftop garage
yellow lines between
our feet make the
imposter stars whiter
i will the parking spaces to
narrow.
or for this separation to mean less to me
words are shadows. our
sooty followers, b(l)ack
stabbers
willing captives:
we ache for abuse
chest deep in lava & she wades
deeper in hopes
her name will fly
frantic from your lips
enslaved to your inattention
words are wounds, clumsy
self-scars &
you are the penknife in my right hand
& she prefered her hind leg caught in those
greedy teeth
her trapp-ed-ness : her happiness
his puncture marks & their bittersweet ooze
to hold her; to let her
in her last moments
belong to him
young yellow lines down this, her street
streaked. smudged, maybe.
split. splayed, yet
neon under quivering stars
no el
imination
[a journey, a war, a sickness
a pizza, a joke, a kiss]
hardly shelter
like wishing for longer sleeves
against the bite of the chill
of s p a c e
twin forearm saplings
writhe
&
surge
in a Spring frenzy they shatter each metacarpal
one.after.another.
Gunshots.
Gypsy bones won't contain this reckless green fever.
In Realtime let's grow fonder,
no sense in [still] waiting [still] for daylight to move the shade over to us.
This sky doesn't end;
your eyes stop it
Pray tell:
What keeps you rooted
Keeps you from me
Hands hushed, our quiet gasps aglow with golden light woven with the bed-frame like your hands in my hair. I am pulled against you and this is happiness; this, your touch scattering up my spine and eyes dark on mine. Lashes lower, the world dims and you speak of falling as an eventuality, like love as an inevitable location. The stories I crave to speak burn the back of my throat and I lean in to you, your neck sweet, and realise you are train-tracks; both destination and journey.
Yes. There is more of me echoing in the cavity between my sentences and breathlessness, but that is supplementary. Remove it and still I stay, steady.
This is hap
i am growing old by breathingglassstars, literature
Literature
i am growing old
finding sequences of afternoons where i'm
fumbling around in a dark gray room
trying to uncover pathways never
opened in me, grown from patches
of organic cells to give me home,
let other people waste me away on
summer sunday, 3 p.m. when nothing's happening.
i try to explore cavities, opening
myself up for light to burn and allow
nostalgia to weep from empty wounds
almost like tears or rain.
and then all the pieces of me
will evaporate cleanly like freckles
lifted from skin after winter shows.
i peel myself from cold tiles
covered in daisies, i remind myself
of the way bodies should work
like machines in the nighttime
and docil
quite mysterious, i'm
suddenly driven mad by
the harsh lines of your brow bone
and the shelf of your collarbone.
on wednesdays, i wake up
over you like dead water
sticky with mosquitoes on those
moonless nights when we're
conscious of penetrating darkness,
when our whispers mix and we're
forced into oblivion selected
by celestial cycles. sleep.
so i wander to your eyelids
and let my gaze sweep like full-moon
hands and fall back asleep, lifted
up by the drawing of your breath.
Moon
You left the knife on the drainboard,
bits of lettuce scattered like green rice.
We should get married, you tell me,
this house tight as a ring around us.
In every room, sleep waits for me.
Sometimes I wake sprawled on the wooden floor
not remembering that I fell.
Things blur, the copper pans
hanging on the wall swell in tight glowing bellies
woven rugs flow like rivers.
At night, your face flowers into an open moon,
filling our bed with light
There is no place left to hide.
There is a need to gather words
place them on the dining table, the couch, the china cabinet
bring them to life, giving them sky
and sun-
clouds.
For grass, one needs rain. This is true.
Say it aloud; this is true.
Alive, the words speak solid, sinking like crumbs in a river more dirt than water: the colour pink tastes bitter, and striped shirts leave me shaking.
Faceless men on looping newsreels make me cry
again, and again, and again.
This is not over, not yet.
i.
the world is brighter where
dregs of strangers' revels remain --
i keep this half-light for my own.
ii.
i'll stay until the wind sighs a scotch-and-smoke
cliché, til the Muscadet's slipped from the lip
of my wayward
hello.(i know you're there before you do.)
iii.
your night is told in
patchouli-pulse wanders; mine,
in whorls of liqueur-breath. come
close and i'll find the warp
through the weft, the trails telling tales
in synaesthesia --
Platinum Blonde's been 'round and gone.
iv.
(-- closer, find syllables strewn
in an exhale's wake; stolen from my throat-
ful of careless farewells, spin and sway
My Dear Peter,
There is a masterpiece: internal and wicked, laser-scrawled and syllable-heavy. It surfaces slowly, like pond scum. I often scrape at it industriously, collecting pieces and bits in the spaces between periods and capital letters, on the back of receipts, and on the college-ruled lines of composition notebooks.
Were it set to music we would find it minor-keyed and shocking. Yes. Let's make this happen, if only to say we succeeded in a single thing, together. There is room in my cerebellum for the both of us to grow: crookedly, zigzaggedly. For us each to lean in, your left cheekbone will pin that half of my shrug
Current Residence: The hearts of the hopeless Favourite genre of music: alt/rock/pop/r&b/rap/indie/punk/emo/techno/folk MP3 player of choice: Zune Favourite cartoon character: Jake the dog
Favourite Movies
The Phantom of the Opera, The Notebook, August Rush, I am Legend, The Village
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
The Weepies, Bright Eyes, Brand New, Death Cab For Cutie, Armor For Sleep, Meg & Dia
Ello my lovelies.
I will now proceed to feed you a bunch of bullcrap about how I feel the need to create a new account with less baggage associated with it. I'm not a "new person" or anything so ridiculous as that.. I just feel lighter without all these scrawlings.
I've been away, and I've made a promise to myself to stop making promises. That being said, follow me if you want. Read my crap. I love you. (:
saber-toothed (https://www.deviantart.com/saber-toothed)
p.s. I'm not deleting this account. It will stay, like a framed picture of me from my childhood.
THEY CHOSE MY POEM.
They basically had to pick at least one of my three I sent in, for how few entries there were. (: I'm overjoyed that they picked "Pinecones, Not Star Charts" to be in the next local anthology. ^_^ I'm going to link you all to that poem even though I'm aware that you've all already read it and commented on it and faved it. :D http://londonrey.deviantart.com/art/Pinecones-Not-Star-Charts-177605778
I'm glad they chose that one. It means so much to me. They're sending me five copies of the anthology, so I'll have to send one to the inspiration of the poem, eh? *bigeyes*
Our poetry club/group at the library got some magical
At my local library there's a sort of dilapitated poetry club made up of old people, a crazy bearded musician and me! We meet the first Tuesday of every month on the third floor of our spectacular library. ^_^ It's a really beautiful building, actually. ANYWAY there's a poetry contest in our area and I entered three poems into it. If I "win" I get published in their anthology. :D These are the poems I entered, in case you're wondering.
Pinecones, Not Star Charts http://londonrey.deviantart.com/art/Pinecones-Not-Star-Charts-177605778
Small But Fine http://fav.me/d33ot9g
Death By Obscurity http://londonrey.deviant