[x]

Star SwallowerShe's
an enigma.
her head, a stadium drowning with applause.
yet its seats are empty like the notebooks
where armies of words should be marching.
instead she dismantles clocks
thinking she can play with time.
behind the mountains lurks a darker reasoning
a twisted labyrinth of rationalizations
hidden from the suns brilliance.

Years alone beneath the bleached fluorescent
reading those already dancing in the moonlight.
she is living a literary half-life through them
hiding from the symmetry of the writer.
licking salty rocks of excuses.
saving her secrets for posthumous excavation.
decades of productivity left for moths to chew.
you're throw

WaitingWe are still waiting for the thunder from the distant stars,
The echo of mortality,
the whispers of a storm, half-remembered,
in sepia-coloured hallways in buildings that smell like books.
Time gets slow in waiting,
ghosts are formed from the wanting,
taking shape in the spaces where sunlight,
or moonlight doesn't touch.
The stars shake from the vibration,
and the ghosts shimmer in anticipation,
but we can't hear your voice in the dead of the night.

A+Pyou bare your muscles,
threaded in tight knots, bundled
but beautiful, yours

like those fibrous eyes,
irises in maple coils
unwinding me, as

unkempt synapses.
a glance inside your lovely
skin, bones, nerves, I'd like

to press your pleasure
points, to scrape against your thighs,
my fingers trembling,

the dimples on your
shoulders, enzymes, waiting for
an induced fit, mine,

thumbs brushing your hips,
lips lain softly twixt your veins,
a complex of us,

your latticed, protein-
laden pulchritude, pleated,
folded into sheets,

await just one touch.

Midwestern Roadmapsi.

wine-fed confessions
are what brought us together;
with a stir of paint chips and skin,
we made clumsy love on the concrete
of a condemned factory,
moving in the shadows of machinery
that loomed like winter trees
or judgmental Gods
who still stopped to smell the alcohol
in our pores.

ii.

"will you pass me a cigarette
and along with that sign your lust
on the paper that will gray in a flicker,
bitter acrid and addictive
like the first high of tobacco—
a euphoric quiver
that lasted only a minute,
gone when you inhaled your second
seeking the same."

iii.

indiana is the land of crossroads,
where the wind blows
to find a better des

a ribcage drenched in dust i have your ribcage, you said.
what should i put in it?

i told you i'd always wanted a fire,
the kind that would fill my eyes with starlight
and pump my blood full of passion, but

you're made of wildflowers, you said.
a fire would burn you to ash.

you wanted to fill my chest with
the sound of a train, whistling
far away in the night;
with the sound of rain smacking leaves;
with the sound the wind makes
when it seems like it's trying to speak

and you wanted to throw in the
smell of midnight in august
and the feeling of sand being
sucked out from under your feet
when the ocean inhales,
and the strange little moment of
bitter

white noise.sometimes i turn off the greasy yellow lights and run the water lava hot.
the quiet porcelain is an untouched coffin
familiar as the look in your eyes.
i can hear my heart beat in my ears
and i stare at the ceiling until it darkens and blurs at the edges.
my body is heavy as lead
i cannot remember the weight of movement.
sometimes the closest i can get is the suicide between each breath
and the apology unspoken on the inhale.
my skin is a ladder i keep climbing,
i can see through the rungs to the fat cells that weigh down my bones.
sometimes,
my hand becomes his when it creeps uninvited over the landscape of my body
and across the staircase of my ribs.
i can't erase the feeling of his body pressed like a book
over my flower.
my head is white noise that bleeds red,
but i'm tired of all the blood.
tired of all the memories like channels
i keep flicking past.
sometimes i wonder if i cut enough slack in my skin,
&

6:30:09what i wouldn't give
to have my body sink down
into yours, cocooned
in the tumultuous quicksand
of human flesh.

i have never been so moved
as by your touch, the slinking seeping
brush. the universe dispels
and in the absence of everything,
i am less alone
than i have ever been.

The Cat on the PorchYou asked me why I do not believe in ghosts,
celestial at four in the morning.
It becomes the common hour,
not a biting static shock in the eye veins like I anticipated
but dangerously vogue and precious
like a real diamond ring or sapphires on your breast.
No wood pecking or oil teasing or misshapen duck bills bleating
just clay, but lighter, lightest
and bright
seductive and crestfallen.

They bled Peter and Pangloss over a river.
I was wearing white for the funeral
humming 'home', the matronly letters
soothe me
clotheshorses and moonlight,
Mayan jewellery in my cabinet
the mother tongue kissing my molars better

But then there

mutethings have been easier
without words &
we pretend neither of us care;

we stutter
splutter
laughing and choking
on puns &

when you bend me over nouns
i scream

louder
growl
more fluent.

the words are there waiting to be spoken

me . you . love

my dear, we've been mute
for so long

speak to me.

EurydiceHis voice enveloped me, and I became
Myself again--I heard it in the song:
A mordent on a note he held too long;
A stutter in his voice. I heard my name
In these and felt a happiness the same
As when I saw him first. Oh, I had longed
To hear him sing again, but this last song--
It was so beautiful. And it remains
The best of human works, though none shall hear
Its sorrowed notes; the lyre's meand'ring tune
Through vast arpeggios and Death's expanse
Except the dead. It will not disappear
'Till all the world's destroyed, and hell's exhumed--
Such music must be worth a backwards glance.

with thanks to salingerAudio version.
it's on those cold mornings
when you are nothing but indrawn breath
swirling and knitted up inside too-big
skin and weightless bones--
when the horizon arches up against
the half-thawed tendrils of sunrise
and smiles
with golden teeth,
and smiling, begs--
it's on those cold mornings
when leaving is easiest.
the car will be cold, and you will
shiver, and the engine,
much too loud,
will smack of blasphemy
but you will find peace in the steady roll
of tarmac and the yellowing light
spilling across it,
with dust motes kicked up and carried
like fish in the undertow.
when you come to that first
crossroads, it will shock you:
the way the decision hangs there
trembling and desperate--
but there are no right answers and you will not
hesitate. and each successive choice
will be made of its own accord,
and you will roll the windows down,
and draw down the scent of ear

A Night at Pinetop's TavernSomewhere in the back alleys of the city's older section there was a crumbling brick building that had been around since before ragtime music was popular. Hanging above a faded green door that led down to the building's cellar was a wooden sign, and despite the peeling paint, you could still make out the bar's name: Pinetop's Tavern. Nobody really knew when Pinetop's first opened; local folks would tell you it had been there since time began, and the world had grown up around it. It was one of those places where the lighting was always dim and the cigarette smoke never dissipated and the cloud you were breathing now had probably been around

slingshot words.there are a million worlds living in your head
begging to be wrapped around your tongue and released like a slingshot
into the heart of some stranger you may never meet.

Wildflowers, Imperfect BirdsI breathed your name like wildflowers under vast broken skies, in wide-open spaces. The wind blowing through them spoke of dew and dirt and petrichor, and there was sunlight on the ground like a mosaic patterned by god's own hands.

I said it like a monarch claiming new land: a declaration, a butterfly breath over old earth; like it was coffee on a warm morning with the sun in my eyes, interlacing with my lashes; like it was a dream; like it was a prayer like it was a miracle wrought of air and bone and body: you, in, out, in, out, in and in and in.

I cried it out like an earthquake between lip and lip, continents that don't quite fit: your

cliffcliff
e.bojnowski

on velvet roads,
I impale a belated dawn
with my incisors and
shiver with perfect leaves-

I have no qualms
with the dark hills
that slope
and stagger into
a bed of scorched fly husks:

where
the thrum of the ground
melds
with the rapids in
my clairvoyant ears.

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More from *your-methamphetamine

she had a habit of making stars cryprobably could've settled for
less than mine, but there's
a tongue-tied night sky
crying to the moon and
its narrating defenses
against my remarks, comments
too
snark: it's
never too dark to notice the spark, dead
shooting stars have been
trying to prove. to me, it takes
more than will to move
the north to the south, no field will
help you, no power will allow you,
no words will let you.
should've stuck to rhyming for
catharsis and, let the night cry to
a fraudulent sun and
found comfort in anonymity to
hang on some more; should've quit
being a witness before i
fell to the floor. should've opened
more books
before popping those pills and let
the driftwood
drag reluctance until it
swam into ripples too perfect for
the moon, and stayed to hold the
stars when they fell
into our lagoon.
probably could've lied about
discovery and the Nile, probably would've
granted every wish worth the while. could've
said the day was too dark for the
night, could've stopped the moon from
settling to surviv

when he said forevereduard, i need to know,
sweetie,
am i the reason your
canvas stays blank?
i remember the sunrise meaning
so much to
you that
you lied to keep me until
it was light enough to open your eyes.
darling, our suns aren't
misunderstood stars that only
happened to crash and create
a universe
and if anything,
you shouldn't have been
so catastrophically
beauti-
ful,
your soul was full that night, wasn't it?
you washed your skin
with the warmth of mine,
lied to me about a
forever
when all you needed was
someone to blame till
sunrise;
someone who could take the
blame till you got high again.
oh sweetheart, my dear eduard,
your acrylic eyes and
pastel cheeks
are tired, wrinkled spaces
of the rest your wanderlust
needs,
they are unaltered homes of
all the wishes that
kept your
collarbones under the
water:
they cleaned your slate,
your words,
but your lies were
just
too
stubborn.
you shouldn't have said tomorrow
you should have said, "till sunrise,"
you should have said
that it's a mistake
for me
to

it's a wonder, we'll never landSage-lipped and infinite, Peter pries open the soft teal of September with fingers that shake and shiver; Alice watches from afar and through windows that tremble beneath the weight of almost-frost, there is the green eyed cheshire smile of a boy both familiar and completely unknown. But as much as the wanderlust has gnawed on the edges of her patience, cracking her reserve, her thirst for Peter keeps floating in her malpighian layer; and, cursing the idea of wrinkles folding her youth, it creeps out before she can close her eyes to restrain it.

As the thirst slips into the jagged corners of her vertebrae, leaving shards of glittering wander

margo once told melately i've been counting the strings left
unbroken inside me
and either they're all split
or i
never
had any
at all

an unkindness of ravens.Timothy Green bought eighteen carousels when he finally had enough pennies to fulfill the missing pieces of two childhood puzzle boxes. children in that household hated horses in the morning, so rotational conventional carnival rides were left for dark moments under a star-blanket every child has shared. songs of psychotic, woeful wind chimes were replaced with endless wave-crashing, shore rustling whispers of an ocean too far away for them to feel for themselves.
money can't buy distance, can't bring land closer to sea, can't bring the moon closer to the sun it can't ever leave. money can't make you stay.
Lawrence broke into high school lockers after hours to read the diaries of all the people he never talked to. he tucked their journal-secrets just like his shirt into his waistline and never said a word. he wrote cliche lines of self esteem on bathroom mirrors for people who hid behind foundation and fake eye lashes. he didn't do it to feel noble, to feel he had changed someone's lif

time-spared drawers of dreamsi. someday the sight-starved
will find more than just the moon -
that i promise you.
we've seen all of what happiness
will never be and
like liquid stars in the milky way,
smiles will seep down
into the oceans of your laughter.
never mind what they said
about shady equilibrium;
it's only man's insecurity.
truth is, there is no
karma -
no rule, no eyes
watching over you;
just the forgotten remains of the
god that falls on us
every time it rains.
ii. someday, my dear,
those cranes won't just be
an exhibition of folded paper -
and those tears you cry now?
[which you hate so much?]
will leak into my arterial walls
and tell me they only tell stories of ecstasy;
we just have yet to realize.
love, it won't be long
till autumn will not be as forgotten
and between these
multiple shades of grey, will rest
the emptiness within yo[us]
and the broken smiles
of a shattered yesterday.
iii. grieve not, sweet traveler -
our draining journey has just begun.
and though you have been without comfort for s

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Worn Out Siren Tales

by *your-methamphetamine, Feb 6, 2013, 9:29:27 AM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

_{I was once the moon-rippled, crystal clear
disturbance at shore
and you found hope, resting
on the borders of
sand and wave.
When I moved, you breathed,
It just isn't worth it,
and I
wish
I
had listened.

I was carved on ship hulls for a
reason,
and I was summoned from sleep to
drown myself in the clutches
of a sea that disowned me
for one too-
and I wrote on woody parchments
for more attention than
story-telling.
So when you moved, I stopped,
Tell me this is eternal,
And I
wish-
I really
wish
I had not.}

Worn Out Siren Talesby *your-methamphetamine

Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

_{This just came to me.
I'd love your thoughts on it.

I'm literally crying. You guys. Daily Deviation? My first?
Thank you so much, `OfOneSoul and ^thorns
You just. For someone as broken as me, you guys really did make my day. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.}

Daily Deviation

Given 2013-02-10

Worn Out Siren Tales by ~your-methamphetamine ( Suggested by `OfOneSoul and Featured by `thorns )

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*riparii 4 days ago

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*your-methamphetamine 2 days ago Student Writer

_{Thank you, kindly.}

=Ambiguous-Catharsis Apr 19, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Hi! I just wanted to let you know that your amazing work has been featured here: [link]

*your-methamphetamine Apr 19, 2013 Student Writer

_{Thank you, thank you, thank you.}

~pomohippie7 Mar 27, 2013 Writer

Your wonderful work has been showcased here: [link]

*your-methamphetamine Mar 27, 2013 Student Writer

_{Thank you!}

~pomohippie7 Mar 28, 2013 Writer

You're quite welcome. And thank YOU for the favorite.

~InTheStarryNightSky Mar 5, 2013

Beautiful. I really must say I loved the "So when you moved, I stopped," all the way to the end. Perfect response to the answer of something you don't want to hear, and a lovely if tragic question. Amazing job.

*your-methamphetamine Mar 6, 2013 Student Writer

_{Thank you so much!}

~InTheStarryNightSky Mar 6, 2013

You're welcome.

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