SeashineSacred skinwhere heavens and oceancollide,an imprint on salted lungsan echoof aching, ofa moonlit yearning upon therolling tide.
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.
Memoir II1.Sinking sunsetting my bedroom alight:summer sky-fire.2.Spiders hang prone;abandoned marionettes,many legs askew.3.Daylilies slumberas darkness bades thegarden to sleep.
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.
Fever DreamsHush now,and close your eyesagainst this vermillion sunset.You feel so much, too much:leave crescent moons on my skin,calm the anguished crimson heatof your own burning heart.This war shall end, my love;but what will you be,if not red?
OdiumBlack and blue,skin and skywater down the drain,I sayas the red line of dawnbreaks over skeleton trees andthewindowpanesshake withyou.
GhostsNight time musings;hollow-eyed and shallow-breathed,filling the spaces between clouds.Quivering shadow skin
And there are voices in the dark,lost sighs and weight upon whisper;but, we are all whispers here.
Sky EyesDesert hands tell talesof a hundred arid summers, butyou are no longer as cloudless as they(there is a stormcreeping through blue, blue veins).But tell the sky to keep her sorrow,that grey cascade blurring againsteyelids and horizons;and suppress her misbegottendroplets, seeping into the soddenground underfootfor there is still sun in your sky eyes.
FableMoon cloaksfallen fromshoulders,(and you are)left clad in onlythe softest ofshadows.
WinterbleederCurled around alpine legs and caughtwithin hollows and inclines of pale skin,she carries her endless winter always.It settles upon frosted shoulders andcaps heavy-lidded eyes, clinging close tothe darkness of each snow-flecked breath;lingering above cracked lips and theremnants of a long forgotten warmth.But darling, don't we deserve each other?(She'd been Spring's child before Winter's whispers.)
Con AmoreCicada violinists,and champagne flutesbrushing lips:an autumn concerto.
SerenissimaSlumbering sunstake a midmorning nap;alleyways bright withgolden ladies,their smiles canal-deep.Nightfall brings guides:stone sighs and dead light,(never so alive).
NymphTranslucent asa dragonfly wing—her hair fansin the water, andthe sun bleeds.
Euros' InfernoIn a smoke blanketmistaken for overcast, hewraps us –the wind, undoing –and the old gum tree writhesagainst him, butwe sit insidewith our homes on fire.
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.
DebussyRestless under theclairvoyant moon—dreams quiver likecandlelight againsta long-lost muse.
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.
Painting ThunderstormsI will remember you in flowers, dead and never given.We are broken promises and shattered glass.In your traitorous arms,I wish I'd never closed my eyes,You are like all good headachesin that, you will fade away,In painkillers and flowers on a grave.
PixieI never had enough faith in you,my best postmodern pixie friend,who presses herself against my shoulderkilling her fall with leaning.You taught me something newabout anxiety today: how to wakeup when it's morning, how to miss dactylic illness with the parched indelicacy of a crinkled sun. In the eternal rendition you sayyour name is always in the vocative case, and only vocative:says the girlwho taught a smaller girl to sing,a girl of thirteen, with the samenimble character we shared, the samecalderical eyes we shared. The girl's voice tumbles out of its weakness:a chaotic calling out to the deltaic rush of rain, a grimy smoker's howl: monadic, suffering, freshand intimate.
I love you.I am not myself these days;I find myself, more and more, in the fog of window panes and the cold, misty morning air.I am not myself these days;I lose myself, more and more, in the way light catches off certain clouds of sunset: prisms.What is different? I love walks in the park,clichéd as that may be, and I enjoy the taste of the rain.What else is different? I am not willing, try as I might,to accept or acknowledge that the sins of my ancestors reflect in me.Of course, this is all since I met you. I wish, sometimes, to feel less like a piano,and more like a harpsichord thatonly you know how to tune. I dream, sometimes, of what lies beneath,and of why I can’t findthe reason for why I love you.
The Science of Usi. Geometry promiseseloquent lines, run from toesto midsection, perplexingangles in eyes andcheeksand eyes, again.And your mouth would be a sphere,curved and perfect,intersecting mineii. and spinning on its axis.Physics tells the truthsof the matter,like behavior of bodies in motionthrough space and how they wantdesperatelyto collide with one anothereven bending time itselfto shorten the distance.I amguided by the gravityiii. of everything learned.
untitledseducing the writeris pointless;he'll seduce himselfif you're silent.
A ThoughtThe best art is madeBy those who care not for fame,But who love their craft.In a perfect world,The Bard's name is a secret,But his tale is known.
Frigid.Without you I'm a winter heart:a cold sunset anda cloudy sunrise,a night on my shoulderlike a ten minute dreamamidst the silent snow --nothing lasts forevermore.Ice on fire,a melting dream,three ways tobreak apart;will you feel anything at allwhen the rain stops andwhen the heart freezes?
knock knock.there is a sound like something has died.you make this sound, like someone has died.when you see me, you make this sound, like someone has died,and i have to look down at myself and check i'm not dead,that it wasn't me who died, and you aren't making that noisebecause you came here expecting a warm welcome,and instead you got a corpse.but no, i'm breathing, i can see my chest movingup and down with the rhythm of it.i'm sure if i stopped, it would burn.but you still made that sound, and i'm not dead,so it must be someone else. i'm sorry for your loss.who was it that you lost? should i be making a similar noise?should i be comforting you? oh god,i've never known how to comfort you...and you're still looking at me like that,like i died, and no one told me.but i'm not dead. we just established that.is there something on my face?is there somewhere i should be, something i should be doing?why won't you say something?you came in here, made that noise,like someone
ether (never mine) i know you by smell: the scent ofwaves crashing upon rocky shores fused withthe scent of the deepest forest green she knows you by touch: maybe it is as i imagine you to bedark velvet pelt shifting with each feelthey know you by ear: their statue of liberty- like heryour stature alone speaks in volumes he knows you by taste: umami sweat blood and tears sharedvalidating each claim
Elegy to the Seathe autumn leaves fell—delicate, flickering in the wind—and then, the snow came just as fragile, only colder. and the whalesongs whispered from the sea, catching on the waves and capsizing in our ears. you wanted to fly away, and i—;oh, how i wanted to disappear inside your bones. i would seep into the marrow, infesting the lymph nodes: you could soar, but you could never leave me behind. the house creaks. it creaks. the wind may well tear my soul from its foundation.but i wouldn’t mind. no.i could start over—take myself apart and rebuild. the snowflakes fall, and the grass looks so like glass. if i touched it, perhaps it would shatter under the sheer weight of my fingertip, like the earth. our feet sink into the freezing sand, and the wind is bitter and i am, too. it’s cold. so, so[rock]cold[creak]cold[creak]cold[creak]and i can’t take it.i’m losing it, i think. and i, i, want to hold onto something—you accidently brush my a
Memoir1.Vert velvet slippersand a mouthful of water –dragonflies flit by.2.Twin evergreen canessupport the elderly bridge;an unsteady crone.3.Citronella flame,illuminating fingers,out-bites mosquitos.
A summer's day.-Featured:Here by *glossolaliasHere by *TheAutumnCrocusThank you both so much!