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.
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.
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.
Of BlissKissing daffodils sway,serenaded by the waver ofgossamer wings;faces blushing brightas the sunlightslips away.
HysteriaMoon sliver arms raisedto the eventide sky,hysteria dripping like winelike a prayer, slipping —hallowed lips no longer, andthe weight of every lossand ticking clockscracking dappled ground.
OdiumBlack and blue,skin and skywater down the drain,I sayas the red line of dawnbreaks over skeleton trees andthewindowpanesshake withyou.
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.
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.
MelpomeneHear her sing of sun-kissed,heavy-lidded tragedies that rolloff her tongue as sweetly assugared violets and as naturallyas nightfall; but bruise the lungsof those who breathe them in.She is no poet's muse, butthese summer-drunk revellerswill never know better.
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.)
SolsticeWhen winter beckons with glacial fingersand your deciduous bones are struggling tocling to an evergreen existence,remember me.
AsphodelA beckoning:watercolour sky shrinking,too late, teeth fall; pearlsfrom a broken string.Blink and the moon ignites—but the sheets are stillenvelope-stiff.
CassiopeiaThe sickle moonfalls, and I blossomhenna red.
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
NymphTranslucent asa dragonfly wing—her hair fansin the water, andthe sun bleeds.
Van GoghSlip intothe first vestige ofmorning, theblush of a summer'sday already aglowalong you—your silhouetteglistens, an aureoleof molten goldas sunflowers puddleat your feet.
The BluesMy darling,ghost your fingers acrossthose black and white bones;then tear them outyou won't need themanymore.(There's no need for sheet music here,when we have your semibreve breaths.)My darling,that piano is as barren asthe one who sits before it,and doesn't play.
insomnia to keep you closefalling asleep with the windowsopen, with morning curlingaround you like a drop of blueink in a glass of water,turquoise and unwritten;remembering when early dawnwas a secret you keptin a soft, aortic pocket—your dead lighter spinningto the floor of Lake Ontario,a halo of its bygone, synergetic flame.
(c)loves and (c)loversi am no artist's muse, i am no ship's harbor i am no hero's weaker heel, i am no good earth's floweri have never been your lovernor have i ever kissed you,- not even once though i dream of you (c)love-scented, with lips shaped like a lucky (c)lover's- kissing you and to be kissed by you over and overi can never profess,not even confess note: even to myselfi stay standing, (b)raving the cold nights,pretty much batty and bootless yet again, the absence of you weighs metric tons on my ringing ear, shivering nape, and repressed shoulderyou dam(n) me withyour body;you are my river's boulder,untapped territory,and undefined border
ZemiThings having to be returned to their transparency: i. / green mist-earth / knit atmosphere / fathomless blue-lavender / lights spun out from light ii. are recalcitrance / and you are convergence & - a fingernail of summer - a melting of rain - a crown of flowers - a priest of sunsets(beautiful? I love you, because. Zemi.Zemi. are you beautiful because I loveyou? Zemi? ) iii. I imagine this is what it's like to breathe sea foam over the Cliffs of Moher: hydration. absolution. To Rilke, it's a melody that floods over us when we have forgotten how to listen for it. I never could forget this: for how could I know my hand as both well and chasm? and how could I know time, a windstruck dimension, standing in her white street? iv. We go on morning walks and Zemi laughs at everything I say.
FlamesThere are flames wherehis head should be -forty pieces of silvera dressing gown, a pipea poem left in the fireplace.This man promised you a winterso warm and bountifulspring would be ashamed.He called you by name -not the one that father knewshoved under his bibleBut the one left behindin the branches,in the bucket of brambles,and the columbinesburied at your feet.Stone angels on the battlefieldsurrender in the grass.What did his faceeven look like behind the curtain,counting those coinsand loosening the damp earthfrom your shoes?
Nighttime Ramblings and InsufficiencyYou drop your jaw,and you pull words out fromhiding, deep in your throat.You wretch up a mass ofunfiltered, unedited, realitybecause you believe that's what it isto be understood.You leave a trail of mutteringswherever you go no one will ever want me it's not enough and i'm sorry, i'm so so sorryDo you remember the difference betweena shadow and a ghost? (the world endsthe day the sun won't shine)Instead of sleeping (maybetomorrow won't come if youdon't say goodnight) you wait;you will not be remembered, andthat is the scariest part-you were never loud enough. i'm so sorryThe night presses too hard,pulling you down, even thoughyou plead for one more day to proveyou aren't just passing through. In the margins, you breathe:
ColorblindI gave away my name todayand it might be a metaphor, but I thinkwe only remember the quietest suicidesthe walls are thin enough to listenas the angels try to scratch free;bloodied fingernails and God says everyonescrews up, sometimesI'm waiting for a silent night.I only ever believed in solid groundand depressions' tides, and sometimes,those little wounds I nursed deepwithin my vocal chords (becausemy voice is dying, too)I can see the beautiful people, nowoverdosing on their own opiums ofself-acquittal and dissolutionthey ran out of ways to ask for help.I'm fragile, but my glass ribsaren't holding muchand I'm through trying to find somethingdifferent, because it's scary to knowwhat exactly's the sameyesterday I was someone else andtomorrow I'm further into inevitabilities ofwho I promised I'd never be--I'm waiting for a happy ending,but if you love somethingyou let it go.
Constructionand the sweetest silencewas the loudestdissonancethe bones of Babylonhave crumbled insidethese limbsand my tonguedisintegrates wordsrather than lettingtheir sound hissthroughmy teeth-now black with sootand ash.my body was never a temple-it's a construction sitewhere the frameworkclings onto sunlightand shivers in the rain,leaving me paleand fragile,cracked on every keratinsurface;despite the amber skiesin these eyes,there are ghost imprintsin these lashes.
Paint the DreamsEvery night, on the insides of my eyelids,I paint the Universe with the ink set of imaginationAnd the charcoal sticks of memory,Then flip it upside down and the wrong way roundAnd let it snag into focus-On my sleeping synapses, the branches of the Inspiration Tree .In my ivory skull-box of random echoes, Every melody, every voice, is re-written and rescored,For a symphony of electricity, crisscrossing nerves ,And running down, like liquid lightningInto the ears of the dormant soul.Here, this is that part of my chaotic deskWhere I re-write physics to suit myself,Redesign monsters and angels to my own specificationsUntil the lines between them are blurred out of recognition.In this drawer, I keep my nightmaresUnder layers of fine, crinkled tissue paper, bound with laughterAnd interspersed with the dead bodies of silk butterfliesThis rack, here, holds the satin ribbons and velvet stringsOf the slipping, crackling madnesses that only come out when I callAnd t
He Remembers 1961He always puts extra steaks on the grill,in case the neighbors stop by.It’s not that kind of world anymore.The wind was the only visitor that nightand it assumed an odor of burning leaves.He thought about all the funerals he hadattended and he thought about Hurricane Jenny.The sun’s last breath felt like thunder.A child yelled “Olly olly oxen free” butto him it sounded like “All your friends die in Spring.”
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.
SeashineSacred skinwhere heavens and oceancollide,an imprint on salted lungsan echoof aching, ofa moonlit yearning upon therolling tide.
Drifting...-Featured:Here by =dreamsinstaticThank you so much!