you thought you were about to die,
seized with sudden thirst
so you gripped the leather
seat
,called
someone.
all the while you were looking out of the window,
blue screen of - you know, - errant
waves.
you're nothing.
-maybe we have forgotten the way
a screwdriver swallow
burrows its way through the air,
something that
never even
happens.
stammering and frothing towards some cosmic Death,
there are sandbags to be tossed,
there are animals to be drowned,
yet lightness
is
inconceivable;
there is a liquidity to sadness
but no words to explain
the searing
rib-in, rib-out -
the flight at
The world is catatonic tonight,
and I think you look
just so lovely
lain out in the damp fields
with your heart
harvesting itself
over
and
over
like a
threshing machine.
I watch you
as you
scream,
as your
hand moves
to the side of your head
and presses
and you wince
with split lips and
bloody gums,
and I want to tell
you
you are not at fault here,
love.
These fist fights
breaking out
of my eyes
are not your fault.
Winter is the homicidal
season.
It breaks its own bones
and throws its
guts
sadistically at the
sky,
and you.
You just look so
lovely
tonight: dressed in the
lapels of the earth.
I will come
to you tonight,
in the effectivene
regarding the state of things by ghostinafog, journal
regarding the state of things
some
times time is not enough
to explain
why
the wind bent me
granulated spices, soft-spoken birds
the wind bent me
lips to red square, to the trowel, to the sewer
regression and
shoving tape into my mouth, looping it around
an atrophied tongue;
iambics had long
become a chore,
rubic's framework of
bones prematurely old-age'd
so
boys and girls
from french fairytales
dragging a mauve plane across the desert,
tonight i vow
like any other night
beginning of gestures,
cessation of words
unlike any other night i ask myself
silly being,
why can't you be happy
why can'
searching for a former clarity by ssleep, literature
Literature
searching for a former clarity
cut my hair off with your teeth at center stage
just before the last song when nobody
quite wants to go home.
i would never liken you to a disease.
i would leave you blessed
in black on my mantle,
i'm sorry
for all this idol worship but i cannot
deny the holy lines in your hands.
practice my first neck tattoo
on the rotten oranges in your fridge
until every line reeks of your jagged taste.
touch me gently.
your breath moves me enough for your fists.
THEY WERE WRONG WHEN THEY TOLD YOU
THAT YOU WERE NOT GORGEOUS.
I LOVE YOUR SANDPAPER THROAT,
YOUR PALE SHOULDERS,
YOU ARE THE MOST DELICATE GIRL,
IF THAT'S WHAT YOU WERE WORRIED
ABOUT, BUT YOU
Lies, Of A(n In)different Kind by nawkaman, literature
Literature
Lies, Of A(n In)different Kind
Dear half-past-midnight girl,
you’ve been swallowed up in space junk,
American debris
sparse real-ity
notions of welfare; notions
far gone.
He was in his cups, drunkblind
stumbling stupid
when he wrote honey on your skin
and smiled through open vessels
(your deceit,
his conceit)
---
but you,
in splendor, dreamlike
deep rooted healing touch
you burn ultraviolet
poem for borderlines by insomniaplague, literature
Literature
poem for borderlines
if i could concentrate over
seven hundred thousand eyes
thumping
at the roof to the numbers stepping
from the nicities & rows
to go back
recoil
to the shattered surface
& the ripples beating over the hang
halfway between shallow
and shore
biting lips. maybe--
no
she couldn't have known
that it takes a whole three minutes
for the lungs to
well, maybe she
who, oh well
oh wait
the white; the haze--
the booming over
the spume and spray
stop changing
disturbing
me get out of my head
just pull up the shutters
step outside
my tongue the weight to talk
it out
but that's all we'll ever be:
a match burning itself out
to a girl who smiles before she speaks by successwithhonor, literature
Literature
to a girl who smiles before she speaks
this is just to say
You still twinkle in my mind like a star
strung out to dry on the clothesline of a wistful sky
and I wonder if the cold is what's making you shine.
I wonder how it is in Florida, if the damp frost has yet
made ice of the lethargic moss dangling in the cypress
like melancholy whispers
or the grizzly beard of mine that you hated
but counterintuitively agreed looked mountainy,
as if to beckon like a child
from the depths of your kaleidoscope lips
a metaphor for such retrospective
novelty. There is a leading role waiting
in my Hollywood revolution, there'll be fireworks
and odes to gravid morrows and if they don't
learn