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sadists are people, toothis sun has found its nihilists
on cold curbs,
on concrete roads.
everyday, one of them guards the subdivision.
i thought, “a sphinx, a totem piece, an angel of death.”
whatever, my sleepy projectionist.
it’s on my way anywhere.
it’s on my way home.
silver-brown maw, it’s at its ugliest
shriveling inside of possum flesh
in a slow taut hug
of the last empty
i won't be caught up
just lay there
PositiveLeft to me, your worst historian,
to pick up, in a daze, some depth of diction
I never found while you had lived
and I can only now pretend that words are capsules
of sanguinity, that they’ll unmask the symbologies
of sound that bore your binaries to their realms
like sacred dreams of Hypnos.
Regret’s a simple word.
I always thought of "A Separate Peace", and in those scenes
you were this Mozart in the rough, a perfect chord, one
which I would meekly channel through cracks of light
shown through the fist of my own interference,
Why this wisdom, now?
The cosmic clown who wrote this song
does not annotate our endings with an epilogue.
I do not see the irony in celebrating
your new found space.
There is no iconicity,
no special shape
that serves the world
as you did serve,
to bend and writhe the streets
into a wellspring, a circuitr
i rob you of your grace.
we must be selfsame
at four a.m.
with a collar for our bones
with crickets in our window air
with angry sawteeth
smothering in a cauldron.
i never had a lover.
be a basket for my worthless heap.
i hear these words
and something happens
in the yard;
it doesn't fit
i see it squeeze
into the slits
beneath your shirt.
i feel it fly the smooth
from off your back. it turns
and hides behind the acres,
of jagged rooftops,
kept far and safe
has left the limb
as light would leave
i’m staring into its absence
and some new kind of animal is made;
its reversal is alive.
it doesn't move or breathe.
the park is wintered over, and i don’t go.
are all gone.
and when they do come back, they never change
from birth to birth,
a clan of inbred
with felt umbrella
that don’t remember
who i was.
one last thought of your last thought
and all the rest become their graves.
nothing i remember, now
will reach the earth.
i have no bottom ground,
the narrow knots of wood
that span and hoard and cup my self
are laughing into holes;
windstorms and labworkafflatus, inflatus, my morning globe,
as lithe as your impermanence.
and home! dread homes! are rabbit dugs,
spoonholed piles of mexican brick
where nothing ever touches down,
nothing here alive receives
the plains’ poor offering of gypsy light,
the ugly wind that meets the mudline.
1. a mottled fence
2. and how these storms hold faceless teeth
that slat their eyes through butter-wood
then purge their guts on wintered florets
4. some freshly headless nativities,
their polyethylene skirts upturned
from violent sacks
5. and knowing i’m a souless
i lick at what is manifest
beneath your hair
each poison tab
and religious studies
i know, i know you never mean
but do not say “live for yourself”.
i’ve come online to see the god
that came before me.
we are so poorly married
like bookend spines of Plath and Hughes
up on the shelf
i'm too soft and rotten
sacred blood oaths,
or thresholds; a frozen inch of face
the same as light years, oceans,
i'd rather brush my mind with pills
and stick these artifacts of wealth
hard inside your origins
and keep the grass
I'm glad you are aliveI’m learning how to die
in every way;
on my skull,
cradling my stomach,
touching for the space
between the motion
and the skin,
for a shadow
on the wall,
unbuttoning the vials
that elbow out like
stubble on the world,
arising from an ancient sleep
in my little corner street,
all to ache again
her ministries of moments,
with heat beneath my toes
pushing down upon the planet,
expanding like a cloud
And after all,
it is fine
that I have known you.
intelligibleYour acumen sharpens
in the stirring of a bur oak
like a lifeform in the limbs
a contretemps in the stillness
a whisper of a thought
a wrist jostled in a northern front
and here comes your aimless code
pecking holes into the new wind
a raver behind a window
in a summering driftwood cathedral
summoned from a force majeure
stealing from your audience
with the paling dead of creek bottoms
and figments curling in their wings.
SurrealismThree a.m., and
God is in my bathtub
a freshwater moon
in the mother-of-pearl sky.
rise and rage
with a new year
untamed and glorious,
pulling the years together
with a snap of your fingers.
but some days you are languid,
stretching like the summer dusting
of freckles along your forearms, the
slumberous strands of hair shuttering
your sky-eyes from the morning light.
on these days, I think the earth spins
slower and the birds sing a little
quieter. on these days, I look
at you and I think:
ZemiThings having to be returned to their transparency:
/ green mist-earth / knit
atmosphere / fathomless
blue-lavender / lights
spun out from light
are recalcitrance / and you
& - 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 love
you? Zemi? )
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?
We go on morning walks and Zemi
laughs at everything I say.
summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you?
you are crowthroated and tumbling
through the aspen grove
hair on fire with sunrise, lungs
full of sky.
eyelashes like wildflowers
and every morning brings
a new spray of freckles
and a sharper curve to your collarbones.
the cornfields hold no shadows
for your lighthouse eyes
and there are no endings in that
ii. you have grown
autumn finds you with broken ankles
leaning on an oak branch
and watching the skies.
crow to sparrow--you are quiet.
summergirl, there is peace in silence,
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.
anatomic residencythere are little people
sitting in the hollows of your collarbone
rubbing their hands
and huddling together to provide warmth
in the soft dips
i give them life as lakes tumble down
my cheeks, stream across your shoulder
& they lick it up
as i dry my eyes
with your skin tissue
sometimes, if the children are lucky
papa will take them to the mountains
they climb to the back of your neck
and they just sit in the spaces between
your vertebrae, no gravity
lifelinesI fear the sound of sparrows
and the density of leaves
against dew-muffled blades
and I'm drowning
in the sky.
My skin has learned how
to peel itself off
without causing a commotion
in my marrows or
even show the slightest hint
and my heart has learned how
to hush the stars in their wake
and keep it all a secret.
There's a sea in my mouth
and I can't swim.
There are lifelines
cast like these and it will
all end with the same tragedy.
Sky EyesDesert hands tell tales
of a hundred arid summers, but
you are no longer as cloudless as they
(there is a storm
creeping through blue, blue veins).
But tell the sky to keep her sorrow,
that grey cascade blurring against
eyelids and horizons;
and suppress her misbegotten
droplets, seeping into the sodden
for there is still sun in your sky eyes.
prey.i'm a collection of curves in your cycle:
a single revolution of your rhythm,
my taste a mile marker.
my hunger is satisfied by your rapture,
and devoured by your voracity.
starving to be grasped, claimed,
and consumed, I feed death— give in,
swallow black relief —your belly round
and warm with the scrapings of my bones.
bury my leavings and tell me reincarnation
is a lie.
Copyright © 2013 Jen Fowler
All Rights Reserved
AndromedaAmongst the darkened skies
Brightened by only starlight
Field & Sea.
Gravity is only an afterthought
Hilltops become ladders into the sky while
Inferior planets stare down upon the Earth
Jealous of such simplicity yet contemplating grandeur.
Keppler only thought of science
Linear, elliptical, movement…
Mythology had no such thoughts
Neptune & Nebulas both inhabit space
Orbiting across the lonely darkness
Probably never worried about mundane things
Questioning their existence
Right now or for all eternity such as us.
Shooting stars make us joyful while
Terminator is an otherworldly spectacle
Unknown to all those hidden in their houses
Various stars await us outside
Waiting to play like we did before
Xenagogue & inviting
Youthful but ancient curiosities.
Zenith induced euphoria continues until daylight…
dead dog julyI.
the summer heat lays limp in the city’s lap,
breathing long oppressive breaths.
it does not even lift its lolling head
to bark out hoarse indignancy
when a strange man brings the mail.
there might be heavy rain today,
brought by some swollen, murmuring cloud.
the world will whirl and howl,
then settle down,
to die a little more.
o, quickly, love,
press your back against the wall in fear
as the universe spreads her arms and
shuts her eyes
and starts to summon the end of all things.
come with me
to the place of windows full of speechless afternoon
hot windy whispers of half-formed solutions and resolutions,
sweltering sunlit meadows we’ll wander and then forget.
o quickly, love,
let’s to the season of forgetting
and unwind all of our harshest memories
and fill the universe’s mouth
with mute cotton.
i’ll whisper these words to you some evening
with all my exigency in the hand i rest on your arm—
Transformers: We Came in WarTransformers: We Came in War
Setting: Sometime during the Bay films
Characters: Optimus Prime
We came to this planet because ours was gone.
The quest for power consumed our home. The need for domination destroyed us. Still we live, and yet there is a piece in each of us that has been decimated forever. We will never recover what we have lost.
I look down upon this planet, and I wonder why we try.
It is evident by now that we have lost the capacity for peace. War follows in our wake. We came to retrieve the AllSpark, which has long since been lost, and we are still here. All that came of attempting to revive our planet was the relocation of the war from our planet of death to this planet of life. There is so much life on this planet. All of it we have sworn to protect. This is the promise we have made to them. But the promise would not need to have been made if we had never co
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