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Literature Text
afflatus, 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.
[metaphors]
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
speck
i lick at what is manifest
beneath your hair
each poison tab
a colour
acid
fire
or lake
a brothel
and religious studies
i know, i know you never mean
to murder
or complete
me
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
are somehow
synonymous
with love.
i’m left to my device too well,
belonging like the secret bedrock
or saplings, stoned,
hung over streams
which do not bend into your wake.
my phlebotomist believes
in what she takes,
lords in her tubes
so i am something, yet,
perhaps in tiny pieces.
i say to them:
you lay like art,
you can almost live
in words.
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.
[metaphors]
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
speck
i lick at what is manifest
beneath your hair
each poison tab
a colour
acid
fire
or lake
a brothel
and religious studies
i know, i know you never mean
to murder
or complete
me
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
are somehow
synonymous
with love.
i’m left to my device too well,
belonging like the secret bedrock
or saplings, stoned,
hung over streams
which do not bend into your wake.
my phlebotomist believes
in what she takes,
lords in her tubes
so i am something, yet,
perhaps in tiny pieces.
i say to them:
you lay like art,
you can almost live
in words.
Literature
crystallophone
there is a punchcard sin
like a queen of spades smoldering in an alley.
Engine,
you hear how the gears churn,
singing faster than we did before
back when black magic dropped like a
pair of socks from the sky with supplies
taped to a note that said
(oh, look at you now)
'U.S.A.,
freedom.'
such a beautiful brain:
what
what girl
runs on gasoline?
have a gallon
or we can call it a balloon,
and a new pair of glasses
for your tapered eyes
(you peel the bark back on the logs,
darling,
but you're not sure what you see),
and life says,
either nail jello to a tree,
successfully,
or keep your
icicles hanging from the eaves,
ca
Literature
Plow
It's finally snowing again,
blankets of peace falling
with a freshness that lacks innocence.
Nearly forgotten, they're here as expected,
clearing the streets,
trying to push aside all the worry
that makes things unsafe, but
the steel mouth askew grates against my heart;
its thick bass scrape pushing more than piles of white aside,
it pushes my blood aside too,
piling it up in the corner of this pumping vessel that falters,
ice-caked and bitten, stiffened,
and keeps faltering,
again,
and again,
and again,
until the air is silent
and the street no longer shivers in torture.
The only evidence is the blanket of white
that keeps
Literature
a conversation
i welcome sleep as it is - a long lost friend returning home from battle, arms draped over my shoulders, weeping. i held it close and whispered - as if it were my only friend, being the prince of the sky, asking of why i cling to my possessions like a dog to its territory, why i harbor insane notions about silly things -
"we are all barren, stripping the land, looking for love in white-capped waves of our own destruction."
i asked why mother nature was pulling me by the roots of my hair, and being as i am, a girl who speaks vague classroom french and stands at the waterside passing small thoughts
like stones as the brine and tangling seawe
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i am not real just because i am told as much. i am real the same way Santa Claus is real - only through faith borne of need.
Merry Christmas.
Merry Christmas.
© 2012 - 2024 spoems
Comments88
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this is one of my very favourite things you've written <3