the law of fuck yes and nolisten to this read out here. I. we write about firstswith the intricacy of our embroidered sleeves and the possibility of universal discoursebut on lasts:your favouritecategory of divine flip-off slip-ups are due;no one prepared me for it.II. “they say you don’t know anyonetill you hear them purge overthe blue of 4 am.”I have watched you unwind,untangle, unknot your barbedwire brilliance to meall day for as long as the time stretch of last week has allowed us;I am seennow.III. you hear mejust as well, sweetsynesthesiaand through the onlyvolatility being with youhas not yet entailedI am your sometimes girlbut as politely as ourcrudeness allows, I am not yourssometimes.IV. fuckyes.V. I crave for a touch that runsdeeper than your skinand like a derangedarchaeologist,I will keep diggingtill our skins combustat the t
to the boy who doesn't plan on leavinghow much of me can you swallow, lovebefore you finally purge?I am a cartographer of badexperiences; I can locateprecisely where I see our divergenceextraordinaire and I can tell youbefore I have even met youthat the skin on my hands is toodry for the softness you planon caressing me with.let me tell you how this ends;I will show you all the peopleI have destroyed - floodedto the best of my ignorance,driven wild with jealousy,had whipped with lust and leftsmoking pot after fourpromises stating otherwise.let me tell you how this ends;after showing you the blessedcatastrophe it is to be human,you will destroy me. you may not mean muchbut god, my heartwill make sureyou do.I never miss people who leave.I miss the ones I walk away fromwith guilt tainting my forlornswagger sohow much of me will you swallowbefore you finally purge, love?a girl once called me her homeuntil she saw just how muchbigger I am on the insideand it took hera day and some minutesto r
this is the house that horse builtperched and misguided, I satfetally arched to the core of us,dictating for notes, strains of allthe psychedelics I knew. their O-shapedwonder and frozen-in-time gaspsstill make me feelthe smartest I have ever been,perhapsthe smartest I will ever be.my lopsided lobes cannotfathom that you are the cause of this. youare another trial lost to luck and badtiming. you are the definitionof bad timing—I had always said I knew that your mindcould outspeak your heart any daybut you choseto believe you lived in submissionto people you claimed to love (the idea of)and prostrated mockingly at your owninnocent choices.all philistines do not, in fact know,of their ignorance; you are noexception.oh, youstretch across time and spaceyet still manage to seethe world through one lesseye than you need. you arebland and small, under all elegies I believedto have written for you;they will never meet your eyes again.I wish dylan had disappointedyour aural sweet spots and
oroboros the creatorlove plucked from chest rungs and unkempt sleevesteased a moon between coke trails and braille thighsoh love, these textures are yours to drink;submissive ethers under your skin and i invite you even furtherdown the half baked concrete i wouldn’t ownsprawl ourselves out to devour the sun, the world, and each other.ourselves, we woulddesign and devour ourselves, drinkour lungs under the mesas and come up pure
just pretend i am a mantell me five thingsthat give you crows feetat the x-extends of your facialT;that would beglitches.inadvertent connections.when I feel a poem coming on.cleverness.you.me? it can’t bemy chemistry innuendosand travel-worthy shows of poeticjustice. in transit, we areshifting and stretchingour insecure bindingto hybridized vengeance(twenty of them)can’t youread with me the storiesof those at disturbancewith god? I’d have youstuck in a parking lot,enjoying an addiction, fearfulof being broadcastin theory, of course.my curls will not tireof your hinted accent. mycomplaints will not lessenin your infinite kindness;you are no more a stranger to methan my own skin. your youth is carvedin each thunderstorm i wish i had seen;all i require is wooden floorboardsand the slightest glimpseof faith.the sweetness you taste last of nightsand early morningsis a permanent bookmarkand timeis a wishful glitch.youare my steroid-strengthambrosia; a fi
bif i should have a daughter, i would,for the staggering second she feels like she is utterlyalone, let the entirety of my beingbe about her so at least that way,no matter what happens, she knows that she can alwaysfetally return to me. and i will paint the mapof the universe on the aerial view of her stomachso she’ll have a myriad of stardust and comet rainto keep her home tills she feels biggerthan her demons again.she’s going to learnthat this second, as long and draggingas it may seem, etching at her throat till it is infinite and tangible only,will end;it will not wait for her to resurface to drown heragain and there is no lesson in that. there will alwaysseem to be better ways to pave your lifeand romanticize each of your scars to say,“i could’ve made it that way -without all this -too.”"and darling," i’ll tell her,"don’t try to go looking for people to save; soonyou’ll realize there aren’t many willing t
chi-squaredyou fold pomegranate bitsand iceberg lettucein careful origami turns--bite.i have welcomed the slantof your kindness with continuityand consistency,crashing my dormant wavesagainst the cerulean coastline of my spine.you foundthe slur in my gait and the hiccupin my reasoning so off, you asked if i waslooking too deeply into questionsand highlighting wrong answersor resuscitating the comatosein her small town caffeinatedsmirk.truth is, i have only beenspeakingspeakingspeaking my stutter away,practicing conviction untilthe face-flush interrobanggives me away; therewill come a timewhen i will consensuallyembrace your indigo indifferencebut tomorrowis not that timeand today is a bulliedcasualty.if you couldfold me in unsuitedpaper ornaments, myirony may settle to existas coincidenceso that we - herand i -may remain a chance;a meeting ofnosignificantreason.
rigor samsawhen i brew silence for one, itgathers arched and unkindly,stretching like camel skin overa tambourine into the distantsciamachy of mágoa, bubblingat our transparentsurfaces.do notrecidivate with me; if youmust, cater to my finifugalgenuflection.i wait for yugen, breakingmy horizon with the vermillionof your universe wherethe cafuné we share oversleepy cups of dormiveglia,is no longer a privilege butthe resfeber that settlesand sinks till it is permanent.as i harvest silence on my own, i stillwatch brontide after brontideescape the nooks of your half-perpendicular jaw, dreadingthe war your metanoia might entailand set aflame. do notwatch my nefelibata wanderingswith scrutiny; i may succumbto drinking sleep out of syrupbottles, finding peace in obeyingall eleven books in my librarya stowed away tacenda.
seven is lucky, eight is infinitysuddenly all the pizza grease songsare about you. allof my intrinsic, righteous habitsare a closed off vesselof God’s deduction of you. seveneighths of my dayare earned and spent by thefraction, misusingmy imagination over your silence.dear stranger,you have stumbled on to a path notdestined for you to take. youare turning circular tables, neverchanging, do you notsee the irony in that?i imagine you walkingmy unfamiliar, light-devoidroad of the void in my experienceas a human being. you see, i am stillsuckling and gigglinghalf-God at the idiots in weed schooland mediocrity is my forte, i’vebeen told; i know only,how to walk the earth lightly, hownever to hint at your dismissaland existential uprooting.i am a door creak so quiet you don’t even move in your bodyhigh. her sighing wakes you up; in her armsi imagine you feelingthinner and so,so naked, just like me shell-shocking youwith my acute, unbeardedwisdom.you deserve a poem, you need
An Audience of OneHow many people have to enjoy your creations before they are considered art? What if you only share it with one person you love?When I was in the U.S. Navy on deployment, my father would send me little abstracts he drew on pieces of card stock. I was his only audience. To me, they are the greatest art he ever did and they mean so very much to me. Art is emotion, and he showed his love for me with these. They are very special. There are many more in his gallery folder on my page. http://mistgod.deviantart.com/gallery/5376791/Dad-s-artwork-James-Leon-Devine-1937-2008 Thanks for letting me share him a bit. Artist: James Leon Devine 1937 - 2008
About the Blues There were reasons I was going to write about a grand mal seizure. Heck, I still have the reasons: I feel like it and it's on my mind. I say "it" because I only had one and it was some time ago. But they say I did a bang-up job of it. My sister told me, "I woke you up to tell you it was time to go to the horse show, and you stood there and said you had a headache and wouldn't make it. Made me mad, actually. Then you keeled over and it's good my husband was there to catch you." I remember the headache. Worst one I've ever had, truly crippling. I didn't want to disappoint my sister and her husband though. After all, my daughter and I were staying with them for an unspecified length of time. I'd even grown fond of the friggin horse shows. The memory that's most embarrassing is a big sign the seizure isn't a small one -- loss of control of the bladder. Check. Tremors. Check. And I guess you stick out your tongue and your eyes go kinda
Procrastination CrapIt's dark now. The last drops of sunlight have been drained from the valley, leaving the soft film of twilight over the camp. She has long since left the safety behind the white line and wanders in the forest alone. Her footsteps are light on the ground, careful not to make a sound louder than the whispers of the tree around her. She crouches low to the ground as she moves through the shadows, keeping her ragged, frightening breathing under control. To her, it's more than a game. In her mind, the shouts in the valley are from a great battle where her allies fall to the ground with dead eyes and blood wets the long grass. Capture the Flag is a simple game, but in darkness, it turns to a deadly fight for survival that can only be ended with a triumphant ringing of the victory bell and a flag held high by the victors. Until then, the campers are brutal hunters. The girl freezes as she hears the voices of older campers drawing near. Dropping into a crouch, she presses into the bush and wat
Hell is Clingy I remember it carried over from second grade to the third – fifth grade playground. Ant City, a home for all the ants, would flourish well here. More trees, more room and softer dirt to dig out tiny trenches and burrows. I remember my best friend's first approach was driven by a teacher's request, but soon C and I went at the ground and at the pine trees trailing long beads of sap, together. I remember being short and frustrated at not being to reach high sap places. I remember the day the long line trees along the fence had orange X's slashed onto them, Tennessee orange. We clumped mud and smeared it over the spray painted bark and amber sap. We couldn't use the sap now… Are the ants going to die? I asked her. She had all the answers. C looked at the scattered drops of orange-coated sap on the tree. For the first time, she said nothing. I remember going back to the p
Wolnosc-Prawdę!Chce pan usłyszeć prawdę?Prawdę o wolności?Wolność nie istnieje, drogi panie.Nie jest pan wolnym człowiekiem. I nigdy pan nie będzie. To jest prawda.Może pan się uwolnić od części tego łańcucha, jednak niczym jest to w porównaniu z wielkim zamkiem, którego nie jest pan w stanie zniszczyć.Każdy z nas ma na sobie obrożę i jest trzymany na smyczy przez siły wyższe.Mówisz, że wciąż mieszkasz z matką? Czym więc jest twoja wolność, gdy jesteś zobowiązany opiekować się drugim człowiekiem.Jak bardzo jesteś wolny pod koniec miesiąca gdy musisz opłacić rachunki za prąd i wodę?Jak twoja wolność ma się do wezwania szefa „przyjedź tu w tej chwili.”?-Są ludzie, którzy rezygnują ze wszystkiego.Owszem, są.Czy by
Momenti da ricordare: secondo incontro"IO (NOME OMESSO) DONO I PIEDINI A MICHELE"E sotto, la tua firma."Ecco fatto.." concludo soddisfatto rimettendo il tappo al tratto-pen"Oddio..." ridacchi tu ancora tutta rossa in facciaPerché sì, l'ultima volta non hai proprio voluto che giocassi coi tuoi piedi..e quindi questa volta bisognava mettere le cose in chiaro...Ci eravamo già trovati, baciati, abbracciati. Poi solleticati, provocati, sfiorati...ma prima di procedere oltre andava fatto..."Metti qui i piedini" dico battendo una mano sulle ginocchia"Noooo..." provi a lementarti, ma non ci credi neanche tu."Qui i piedini" ripeto.E tu appoggi lentamente le tue estremità sulle mie gambe.Sorrido "Bene..."Inizio a slacciare lentamente la scarpa destra.Ti guardo mentre la preoccupazione nasce nei tuoi occhi"Non so esattamente quanto lo soffro sotto i piedi" mi hai confessato "Me l'hanno sempre fatto più che altro a fianchi e ascelle..."Questa sarà un'ottima occasione per scoprirlo...Sfilo l