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VictorianLace creeps up my neck and chokes my words
it seems to be my fate
to be dead without dying.
Cloaked in itchy velvet
and buried in silence amidst meaningless chatter
in this sitting room coffin.
The green truth of decorum
grows above my head.
What would it be like
to stand up freely
Not to be left alone
to dance and mingle in sunlight
and kiss the sweet undersides
of tulip petals
and have only the blue sky
for a parasol.
But for now
I weave these desires into corset strings
and whisper soothing words
to my screaming ribs.
I don't know what I look like
under all these petticoats,
but I've found the path back to life anyway.
A kiss of spring can't kill you
anymore than the thousand tiny deaths of marriage
the daily lies.
But if it makes you feel better,
pity me and call me spinster
as I blow the dust away.
SightI can feel you in the room
a warm breeze
curling my toes
as I swing them off this wooden porch-swing.
is everything I can remember
Dancing in your arms
is all I've ever learned about flying
below me is endless air.
My hands have eyes
like th petals of a thorned rose
and in this moment
I can see the future.
Eternity will not erase your name from my palms.
ArchitectureYou smiled over me as I worked
reading a birds-eye view of hieroglyphics
odes of love
mapped out in charcoal cities.
I let your hand guide the ceilings higher, higher
and we sliced diamonds in the sky
so that we could lay back and gaze up into our future
We planted our feet in marble columns
and carved quotes up our spines
Wind and rain beat at our sides
But we laughed and watched our nails turn green.
We loved bouquets, you and I
but I took a secret solace in permanence
in the wing I'd built in your name
until you used it to fly away.
She Doesn't MissShe tried to fall asleep
with someone else's words in her ears
and the silhouettes of another city in her eyes
that were stinging red from chlorine and her blurry reflection in unfamiliar porcelain
She sat trying to replace the angel wing bites on her hands with kisses
like roses, forgotten until too late
behind a nicotine curtain.
Because Her Name Means HeartWhere will I be
when the Autumn leaves
fall on his piano?
And turn the world the same color as my
memories of you
You always breathed
in time with songbirds
when I rested my head on your shoulder
As we watched
the frosted dawn.
What he said is true
Your smile is the moon
So high, and proud
and frightened of waning
While you whisper to me
I'm content to be your star.
I'll never forget
when we snuck behind the carousel
you let your hair down
and showed me
an ocean of crystallized
You say I taught you how to swear and be silly
But I only let the parrots
out of the cage.
TendrilsWhen I asked him about names
They are epiphytes, he said, not parasites
tendrils of stars
sharp and coldly geometric
roots digging in like claws
or reaching out like expectant fingers
dangling in the night.
White orchids curling up trees
to kiss the silvery sun
brown thorns crawl up a lampost
piercing a man-made soul.
EmbersBurn the want out of every moment
sweep away its ashes
from your mouth
dry swallow the big pill
to survive her
and move on
without her touch
without her color
I try to do it right
to sleep here instead
to think fresh new leaves
and unfurling blooms
but all I find is this open mouth
LandmarksMaybe it's stupid
to eat a cherry off a spoon
to twist me and you up in knots
Maybe it's silly
to call a pond a lake
to see my reflection on the gas station floor
to find a galaxy
in a most inauspicious star.
Maybe it's a lie
to build a waterfall
to stand behind and watch the sky tremble
like the month of October.
Maybe it's impossible
to paint all the roads green and endless
to fill a house with more than burdens
to hold your breath under tunnels
and remember them before they existed.
I know it's wrong
to put thirst in your syllables
to write past as prologue
to ride backwards over a broken bridge
but I can't help
the beauty's in the leavingRead aloud here.
sweetheart, let's head out. let's
drink up the desert asphalt and that last bottle
of johnny walker blue--
one last toast to the copper sunsets,
to the good earth. a pair of
tailgate stargazers, you and i:
roaming curves across the glove compartment map, until
every foldline is worn flannel-soft
and it'd rather stay open
let's forget route sixty-six. let's forget
and pick up terra cotta dust--
breathe in the mojave. let's pretend
that the world's already ended
and it's just us.
let's leave the door unlocked
kids cut through the middlewhen you spend a summer somewhere
where people squirrel away their
ugly children, it's hard not to notice
the subtle strain of the truth
on certain smarter faces,
or the absolute oblivion
in certain spinning eyes
and stumbling legs.
i met a girl named K,
with ankles like a deer and a voice
loud like noise and swampy like a swamp.
she liked orange foods and big words and
her hands shook like the girls in jazz class.
K clicked her tongue between words sometimes
but nobody ever mentioned it. her socks
were alphabetized. she carried a comb in her back pocket
but only 'cause she needed it, she said.
her hair was turning to snow and falling out,
she said. 'cause she pulled at it too much, she said.
she said other things, too, but i promised
never to write them. i promised not to tell
the bad things she'd done, the boy who kept her in, in, in.
she made bracelets of awful words at night and kept them
under her bed. she did it maybe so that even worse things wouldn't go bad.
Linoleumwe are pondering
needle/thimble/tremble. i stitch
us a home in awkward conversations.
this is the great city,
dim lights to give us
sidewalk halos. we are inconvenience
stores, bubble gum kleptos,
and that's how we know
none of this is a dream.
it burns too real, leaves fingerprints
on our sight. this is dusty
this is life,
To LondonGypsy hopefuls once told me,
there are flights leaving for
at any given instant
Upon sizing up our town with
did you realise how little
our frustrations were?
I spoke about this ineffable feeling
of stepping out of one tub
and into new water.
The hotel was done up nicely,
chandeliers and polished English accents.
Labels aside they still mixed
milk into their coffee
and had toast with jam and butter.
I was living under the impression
that most of the Internet
came from my same slice of city pie,
conveniently forgetting about
the undersea cables.
I loathed the lack of vernacular
sentence styles and words.
She saw things through different eyes
and I understood her.
When I found out she was a writer
halfway across the globe
I was selfish
and I loved the world a little less.
It was different
but it was still water.
The Old God, Savitrॐ भूर्भुव: स्व: तत्सवितुर्वरेण्यं ।
भर्गो देवस्य धीमहि, धीयो यो न: प्रचोदयात् ।।
The wind blew sand into your nonchalant soul,
and your heart coughed. I entered the circle
at night, and I was consumed by fire. I did not
know of you then. I have fractured myself into
a thousand souls: but they are all whole, for I did
see you in my absence. Yet you? - you
were sailing, and your head was
full of water light.
I was significant when your mother poured out water
in a copper pot from a balcony; water, which
caught and held the moon, and then spilled over
with a quiet radiance. You wondered whether
the moon l
little white liestissue paper skin and barbed wire spines
"i haven't been sleeping well."
butterfly wing smiles and porcelain bones
"the medicine will help."
sparrow hearts and rose petal hair
undersea eyes and sailboat stomachs
"these things pass in time."
enamorHer body like that of
hesitant. He lays her
fecund bones on
the bed, plants them with woolen
fabric under the
drapes her with skin,
and falls into her,
folds her like cloth
until she is but
a thin line
blanketing the astral
phenomena that is
Primevaland I don't smoke, but all my poems talk
of cigarettes and ashes because my father smoked
for forty years and now he can't breathe
and I can't breathe.
the chill from the rain seeps through the glass panes
and feels swollen in the loneliness of a crowded train;
the air is pregnant with an umbilical thread
connecting us to something intangible,
something necessary to our being
yet we don't exist at all.
smoke and vapor crawling out our mouths;
we talk because the silence is sometimes frightening,
and because we're searching the dust visible only
in the places where light bends for words that won't disappear
in the morning.
cradled like a baby. the entire universe existing
within the meaning of a single syllable;
a sound make the strings of existence
but there's nothing between m
Angles of SeparationI was born at right angles to the earth
your houses are inscrutable
I stand on the shores of my heart
perched like aliens in a spaceship
who think mirrors are photographs of someone else.
My lips are bitter-tainted
from eating discarded fruits
I need someone to see my hands
waiting like constellations
and grab them through the clouds
to see that this universe is made of stories
so I can finally stand up
and live parallel.
I Belong To You I hate rain. Not really, I love it. Just not when the most beautiful, perfect, wonderful, perfect, comfortable, waterproof, perfect coat in existence has been savagely butchered by my so-called friend’s Dalmatian. Every slap of rain on my naked arms is a stinging reminder of the irreparable hole in my wardrobe.
Some people might try to fill the void with lesser coats but I can’t bring myself to betray Valentino, even after her death. Instead my slippery arms grapple with each other in wet shock as I stumble to the op shop, clinging to one last thread of hope. I know in my deadened heart that I’ll never have another coat like her. Yet here I am, blundering through the elements in my vain search for the acceptance and warmth I found wrapped in Valentino’s woollen sleeves.
Thud. My body slams into the door, making the ‘open’ sign quiver and the bells tinkle in offense. I fight for entry, the door’s assault doubled by the stale funk of
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More