1,001 NightsIn a land ofdreams and dust:the curve ofa half-hazed sun,devoured.
DebussyRestless under theclairvoyant moon—dreams quiver likecandlelight againsta long-lost muse.
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.
CassiopeiaThe sickle moonfalls, and I blossomhenna red.
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.
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.
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.)
LiliyaBright-eyed,bird-bonedwhisper girl;dark-dressed,moon-backedmistress of light.
AsphodelA beckoning:watercolour sky shrinking,too late, teeth fall; pearlsfrom a broken string.Blink and the moon ignites—but the sheets are stillenvelope-stiff.
IcarusFledgling of thefour-winds; feather-lightagainst ajaundiced sky(dawn is quietwhen the noose istight).
SurrealismThree a.m., andGod is in my bathtubagain—sipping whiskeyhallelujahs;backlit bya freshwater moonin the mother-of-pearl sky.
glass in the tidegradac, croatia; summer.it is a town climbed up from the sea:a salt hymn, an exhalation, a brightly calcifiedspray. the houses here are overgrownas wildflowers, paths like tiny winding veinssprung alive between them. from my balcony i watchthe sun crest slowly into afternoon,and mothers lead their childrendown stone slopes, arterial pullto the water. by the shore,vendors sell bottles of olive oil, salt,sage, gathering up anything with the tasteof what mystery inhabits the air—brimming overthe glass lips, a curving kind of joy,the whole earth, a bowl of it.at night, my uncle drinks beerand i drink wine. he watchesthe football game and i tryto write this poem; try to bottle with languagesome tipped draught of the night waterbelow me, the children still dancing loudin its repeated unfurling,opal spray.in the morning, we swim, and stretch outour salt-damp bodies at the edgeof the sea. lying there, i rustlethrough the beach's tiny stones, pick out emer
summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you? i. summergirl,you are crowthroated and tumblingthrough the aspen grovehair on fire with sunrise, lungsfull of sky.eyelashes like wildflowersand every morning bringsa new spray of frecklesand a sharper curve to your collarbones.the cornfields hold no shadowsfor your lighthouse eyesand there are no endings in thatsurefooted smile. ii. you have grownso fast.autumn finds you with broken anklesleaning on an oak branchand watching the skies.crow to sparrow--you are quiet.summergirl, there is peace in silence,perched treetop,fallen antlers in your hands.you will come to mourn your deer.keep them close. iii. by winter you have paled,and like the streams your eyes have frosted over.you feel the chill--there is no need for sight.summergirl, th
sun worshipand we, the broken-winged disciplesthrum closer, closer--seeking warmth on our dust-drenched backs,and reflections,and a landmark in the wide and opendark.we breathe,together(closer)--moths among the fireflies.
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.
wallflower clippingsthere's scar tissue in her throat,swollen around the words she never said;dark rings around her eyeslike planets unremembered, anda staleness to her touch,the crystalline Dead Sea.she's living like a storythat's already been told"if no one loved youwould you mean anything at all?"in that moment,we forget to exist.
SurrogateI stopped using his full titlebecause it started sounding too formal,and it’s hard to be standoffish with someonewho swaps albums and memories so generously,who loves German chocolate but hates the smell of oranges,who knows me by my boneless,drowsy form on the couch and by my words.And maybe one day he’ll askme to drop the title altogether and call him Brad,but I won’t.Because it sounds too much like dad,and I’m afraid of slipping up.
MizpahThe crying windbrings adeluge:lostand blurred atthe edges,youbecomeawhisper.
Haiku Ithe birdsong filled herempty shell with a blissfulverse of harmony.---one purple flowerswallowed by the azure sea,now forever alone.---the moon ate the stars,and carried them far away,darkening the sky.---
Alivefarthest from my mindis the thought of turning backand drowning in a sea of thoughts,struggling for air -i do not want my mind possessed,with whispers of ‘never, never’rustling within me like a taffeta skirtacross the floor –instead,i want to be alive,not simply breathing –a survivor, not a victim.
imperfect architecturedelicate templeyour heart is a chandelieryour brain's a traitor
indulgencei will peel away every individual shade of colourin this seven-thirty pm skylike stickers on empty beer bottles in the spacebetween your anklesi will drink down this crescent moon cocktailand get tipsy on night air,clinging to my skin and summerwill run through my veins(quick-stepped, hurryingbut i don't want winter to come)and sometimes i'll look down and realise that my fingers are still sticky with sunsetsbut i never want to be clean,not ever again.
NaPoWriMo- Day 5She used to try and catch butterfliesuntil she realized their beautyrubbed off on her fingers;but she will always be loving youwith those digits.20 years from nowwhen even the love on her armsis unrecognizable.
Andromeda on CassiopeiaI am an unripe novaborn of a blossom-warm wombtucked in my mother's bosom-I was prematurely plucked. Thanks to my mother's harmI never learned of love-only of being adored.Adorned with endless diamonds,I am worshiped in light-years.
ps: i love youautumn is near and youare falling, fallen you are blowing away from me like dusti have shaken myselfout of your barbed wire gripand oh,i am cut to piecesmemories sing like sirensas you pour from my pores,and i will not cry,i will not let you change mei'm ripping you from my skinlike hot wax and plastersand you do not even hurtnot anymore
NecromancyShe thinks there are nebulaein the rough of my gutter bones,some stargazing sanctuaryfor lonely outcasts to lay their heads.I am but a car crash,spellboundinside eyelids,& red inked correctionson crosshatched skin.Made up of moans,the clutching of bedsheets;I am contemplatingripping my ribs apart& provingI never had a heart at all.But my moon shy love;she is determinedto try & wake the dead.
Glimpsing MorningLittle bluebird preensperched on the garden fence,morning dewclinging to clenched talons.Tomorrow,those featherswill be strewnacross my lawn--little bluebird beakbroken,singing no more.
NymphTranslucent asa dragonfly wing—her hair fansin the water, andthe sun bleeds.
The subtleties of drowning.-Featured:Here by *lombregriseHere by `dreamsinstaticHere by #the-5elementsHere by *silver-ships-flyThank you!