DebussyRestless under theclairvoyant moon—dreams quiver likecandlelight againsta long-lost muse.
Sundropo n some days I watch you rise and ragewith a new yearfirework fervour–untamed and glorious,pulling the years togetherwith a snap of your fingers.but some days you are languid,stretching like the summer dustingof freckles along your forearms, theslumberous strands of hair shutteringyour sky-eyes from the morning light.on these days, I think the earth spinsslower and the birds sing a littlequieter. on these days, I lookat you and I think:sundrop.
MizpahThe crying windbrings adeluge:lostand blurred atthe edges,youbecomeawhisper.
O FevraleWitching hour, welcomed with a sigh,bare-breasted and ink-stained in the night.Half in love in this half-life half-light;pisat O Fevrale navsnryd, dreamingof the gods. Wanderer, today I died anddied again, and whispered prayersto clasped hands… until the nestleddroplets fell away like sunrays at dusk;and when moonrise came, I sang again.
IdleWaiting for the 25:yellow-green, a beetle shimmeringin the five o’clockwarmth of a heat-wave day. Thesun-slowed city stirs, a languid droning;and I —summer speckled —am red-black and mumblingfor a seat in the shade.
PeonyAlone, but forthe red boots marchingthrough mycathedral heart: Iam beating echoesin this city of thelost. Ghost-stepping little girl'sdreams, I visit mamain the night; butflowers and wine won'tpay for her light.
ApsaraFind me sunken into thelotus field, bathing skin silvergreen,waist-deep and pinkin sunset, and we will cry:for three-faced elephants,for rain,for the dancers threading gracebetween their fingertips—until I dress in the heaviness,a sarong of heat.
AsphodelA beckoning:watercolour sky shrinking,too late, teeth fall; pearlsfrom a broken string.Blink and the moon ignites—but the sheets are stillenvelope-stiff.
MuselingRed wine ramblescurdle the air, but stillyou dream; half-moonbody curled in thelamp light. I am leaving,I am leaving, choking onsome holy word—the floorboards creak,a sonata for mychangeling shadowwhilst you, hair tangled uponthe pillow, are spun gold.
1,001 NightsIn a land ofdreams and dust:the curve ofa half-hazed sun,devoured.
The WindblownLike a sparrow, you perch; toes curled and brown eyes wide, arms tinted blue with cold. In my haste to reach you I trip upon your shoes, tiny little things still drizzle-damp and abandoned at the door. "What are you doing?!" Your legs stretch for summers as you stand, dress billowing from you like a white flag of surrender. "Ava, come inside. Come inside. Please." You stare past my outstretched hands and step away—a sparrow, caught in a downdraft.
SehnsuchtOctober again;and the curtains billowwith broken glass echoes andMendelssohn's bride waltzingto better times(einzweidrei)She becomes the rain,and breaks her own heart as the sounddripsright through us.
SeashineSacred skinwhere heavens and oceancollide,an imprint on salted lungsan echoof aching, ofa moonlit yearning upon therolling tide.
Alla RabiosaScorpio's tail slips low—a mari usque ad mare:from sea to seaover me, a devil in the sky above;and the Huntresspeels dawn like an orange.(Fling meamongst the stars:the Mad Queen's cosmic mirage.)
PompeiiDrumbeat from above;trailed by ragged, ashen dogsfed only Vesuvius’ shadowuntil the heavens split—sodden map becomespapier-mâché fingers andfrom afar, through a veil of rain,a chorus: the mournful dogs howl,cursing the gods.
ElsewhereNights like these I stay awake watching glass shardsshine in heaven-light, and my mother says that I should go, Elsewhere.Rain doesn't stop for the little losts—underwater at one o'clock;still the streetlights blaze like midnight suns, and whale song driftspast parked cars.Nights like these I am waterlogged, wandering, and I don't findAtlantis just a sofa downtown where the whale lovesongs are raindrop-borne,slipping through the window and dripping onto hands. I remind myself I amonly alone, though missing—the weight of my cat on my feet and mysister's soft sleeping.
lovesong for sailorboyRead aloud and explained (somewhat) here.i have always loved words as you love the seabut i have grown to hate prepositionsbecause i have always had wordsabout youwith youto you--but never for you.words for everything except you.but i have words for this, soi'll take them one by one.about.the ocean was your first love andi could always see it in your eyes.most would call them blue--justblue like a swell over a sandbarblue like the spring sky over a poppy field.but i don't think anyonegot as close as i did and they're not bluenot shorebound andsafe--they're gray like the steelbellied sea itselflike the horizon at dawn as itencircles youhems you into an impossibly vast canvaslike a demarcation lineor a promise. one you always chased.with.maybe i had a streak of ocea
CassiopeiaThe sickle moonfalls, and I blossomhenna red.
Sravana VarsaI'm broken branchesin forest trencheskeeping you safe throughout warI'm hidden rain-songslyrical diphthongtrembling by the cooling shoreThe sky is runningwith ghost clouds gunningat the clueless masked lovebirdsThe moist earth swells upfilling leaking cupswith our fruitless crippled words Candlelight flickersleave souls to witheras my bones set in for nightPrevernal daydreamsundone at the seamstease you and wind you up tightMy hair is guided by the sea's deep sighsMy skin is summoned by the auburn glowWe took a vow to live without goodbyesMy hair is guided by the sea's deep sighsI hear bells resounding like last July'sAnd so by another trench shall I goMy hair is guided by the sea's deep sighsMy skin is summoned by the auburn glow
NaPoWriMo: Day 2sometimes,i have thissudden urge to cutmy hair.most of the time,i just wish I were anythingother than me.a rocket ship, a bird-the sweet flavored smokeI promised my girlfriendthese briar patch lungswould not in.hale.instead,i have fallen in lovewith the strangest of things-eyes that intimidategodless boys.the way my scarsplay hide and seekwith her hands. -the love lettersthat start and endwith kissespressed against limbs.i make promisesi know i can not keep.but if i were a liari would say i was tiredof writing to the stars.
with thanks to salingerAudio version.it's on those cold morningswhen you are nothing but indrawn breathswirling and knitted up inside too-bigskin and weightless bones--when the horizon arches up againstthe half-thawed tendrils of sunriseand smileswith golden teeth,and smiling, begs--it's on those cold morningswhen leaving is easiest.the car will be cold, and you willshiver, and the engine,much too loud,will smack of blasphemybut you will find peace in the steady rollof tarmac and the yellowing lightspilling across it,with dust motes kicked up and carriedlike fish in the undertow.when you come to that firstcrossroads, it will shock you:the way the decision hangs theretrembling and desperate--but there are no right answers and you will nothesitate. and each successive choicewill be made of its own accord,and you will roll the windows down,and draw down the scent of ear
the inchoate incarnate it's a perfect night to be let go by the militia of our incoherent tumblings; dry like yellow moss percolating through urban automata. how many sublime forests will burn with the charred quietude of our relative sobriety? & how many neuroses can you cure wasting away beneath a weltering sea
Insecuritiesi could tell you a million talesof when i stared into the abyss,and drowned in the thrashing wavesof my own torturous thoughts,that the dark crevices of my mindbegan dragging me undera sea of endless insecuritiesimprinting on my bones.
it's the little things that follow you to sleeplately, i’ve been wasting every minutechoking on inevitabilities; wonderinghow many times i’ll promise myselfthis year i’ll be different untili move on to something lessunattainable. truthfully, i’m just sorryfor the ones who still thinki’m tryingand i have been waiting anugly amount of years for myprophetic completion-- a love likei say you’re beautiful when really i meanyou make my heart stop, likei was born to meet you or perhapsi’m actually breaking some universal lawof equilibrium; loving somethingso unnaturallybeautiful.i want a love like that:napkin poems, handwrittenand tender and accidental collisionsigniting a thousand forest firesbeneath my skin; me,blossoming like a wildfloweron a california highway, baskingin the sun and ignored definitionof earthly limitations. i want to believethat somewhere, there’s a boybuilt of summer sunsets and shooting starsfor every homesick girl who neverquite fit in, t
PSit's come to this-- definitionsof memories and people and dreamsI’ll never know firsthand like reasons for living;this realization that Iam a stagnant planet, loston its orbit home; thissearch for a justificationto keep on breathing oceanwhen my lungs won’t toleratesalt. I woke today in the waterto angels swimming around my feet;coral, pearlescent anchors dragging medown, down, sweetly lullabyingabout you, dear, and the daythe tides washed you away.you are written in my skinas much as the lies I live bydaily. you are the beautiful things:the sun waking up in the morning, thestars pitying at me as I try to fall asleep.the watercolor sky sighing, thevirgin clouds crying, the last notesuiciding itself into silence.
.when her love left, it leftthe house emptyand she saysi hope one day it'llcome back to me,cos i don't keep this shotgunon my front porch for nothin'
scraps and sacramentsyou,beautiful siren girl with melodiesentangled in her hair: you areshell-shocked and sea-struckeven though you cannot standthe sensation of sand beneathyour toes.you have fingers for prying, picking,pulling at your skin and nestingin that hollow space betweenyour bones. and if anyone asks,you will swear there are monsterssleeping in the concaves of your ribs;there are ghosts beneath your tongue,embittered, and you are not the wordsyou speak.they say there is an answer, little girl(sometimes you begin to believe you area scarecrow on the border of realitybegging people to turn the other way;and the mirror will agree)how far have you gone? a feather inthe breeze who won’t promise to returnagain; there is a wandering warmth inthe hesitation of your harbored fear.where will you be in six months whenthe future has become itself and youare still astray? little one, no one is like youin the way you sway to the cadence of adissonant night. no one knows your
Con AmoreCicada violinists,and champagne flutesbrushing lips:an autumn concerto.
NaPoWriMo 4-Featured:Here by #InspireTheUninspiredHere by =HillsOfMystThank you!