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052211a few days ago the whole world smelled like cigarettes and the backseat of somebody's car, laughing when they turned up the music so our hair blew around our faces. I have been that girl waiting for her life to start
i am that girl, teaching herself how to smoke
behind a building that used to be a church,
now hosts art classes and movie screenings where the cheese is cut as small as the conversation and everybody likes black skirts and big silver jewelry.
this week i smoked two slim unfiltered cigarettes and was still hungry for dinner.
in november i learned how to make a lighter leap to life under my thumbpad and we burned paper in the forest while i sang a song
and you had just dyed your hair, it looked pretty and startling against the shrunken new england forest tucking itself into winter, into snow white and perfect against each elbow-crooked branch.
may now, and i am measuring myself in things other people tell me are bad for me,
for the first time at sixteen understanding why the
1. 41 poems are saved on my computer, shot livewire from brain to fingertip.
2. barefoot on the porch, touched my hair while the month drew to a close in a dark press of damp april clouds and fit a few words in.
3. write a poem with your feet, write a poem about your feelings, shift and compress the electricity that runs through the pictures in your brain, soften the liquid burn of sensation with the cadences of tongue and letter, compress your lips and start with an m.
4. write a poem about writing a poem and don't forget the rhyme scheme, drop something small and hot and dense into the world and hope it will expand stiff and new as a crocus unfurling itself into the newborn air groaning through the porch floorboards, hope that it will make somebody feel something nobody has ever felt before in the history of the universe, hope that it will give birth in the summer with its feet tucked into an armchair and knees pressed together like hands in prayer.
041811there've been a lot of afternoons wasted writing poems about you,
curved over keyboards with my spine about to burst forth from my skin because that's what you're like
a slow ripping explosion
it takes big things to knock the wind out of me;
tree branches toppling
the feeling of my own mortality wet under my fingers
last summer, you stole into my sails and made a home for yourself beneath my breastbone where it is small and warm and empty,
and okay, maybe i cared a little too much. but can you blame me? it's neither of our fault she was there first with tighter lines than i have, neither of our fault that i feel too hard, too deep, too vivid.
more than anything in the world, i would love to see you bloom under my fingers, soft and wet. i have unfeminine nigglings, but it's okay because the revolution is done
only in movies, though. everyone in the public high school hallways seemed sterilized to my young flickering eyes, too caked in test prep to shed their skins and burrow
040411i am in love with you the way that a robin loves its sweet red breast flashing against the sky, startling and new even after all of it.
i will remember the way your fingers had folded into themselves like crocuses in reverse
tilting your head back against the bus seat to talk to me, smiling with your lashes playing a fluttering heartbeat against your cheeks.
there is real poetry in your bones and i think we are the same and different in a lot of ways that count, because neither of us have too many words except for colors, pictures- rooted deep blue or a rock that I scrabbled at with my fingertips that turned the skin of my thighs folded and red.
you have pebbled my skin with old touches, you have a beautiful smile, i promise it. when i go to a new place i imagine the footprints we would leave in it and how the colors our skin absorbs like paint-smudged sponges would spread out along the line of my jaw when you touched me there then on my neck with your little fingers.
021711lover boy, don't even try to tell me there's anything in the world burning brighter than us tonight,
with your knee bent halfway over that fence and my smile entwined in your collarbones.
020611sunday morning in february, and someone should tell me how to explain how i feel about you.
ice closed round all the branches of the trees, it rained last night in new england
and everyone in cambridge dropped streetlight eyes to the quad
to somebody more alive than they were running their fingers through the gaps in bricks.
i was still awake when the morning bloomed, and the tears came close again last night, my shoulders shook and the feeling was thicker than paint, wider than the charles.
how to explain
i remember you in the morning, bleary-eyed and beautiful
fingers venturing over the spine of a book. all times of day you were angles
and everything is stranger after you, colors are different.
i eat too much and know you wouldn't mind, smoke my first cigarette and know you would, and sometimes i am just caught up in the idea of us
it's okay, you know, you don't need to apologize, because i'm doing this to myself, but above all i am a sensible girl with sensible thoughts about how we
012511sweet, darling sara, standing on the landing with hair laced into her fingers,
the war drawn into all the creases in her skin. she says of course we are not our soft earthly vessels, we are smaller, firmer, wetter
i ate a peach, she dared, we disturbed the universe together oh god the universe was in her motions if i could draw lines to capture her big blue hips i would. do i dare disturb again
sara in a dress, my own branch-tipped apparition, what a doll, what a doll.
012411i thought maybe you would kiss me today, and i
don't know if i would've minded, honestly
you're beautiful, from your mindside out
you are soft around the sides like i am and i
would like to touch your hair? i don't know
because i think it's beautiful, i do
but there's someone else?
but you have someone else?
and my friends say you want me
and maybe i want you, i feel so funny when you
i think maybe i want to kiss you
even though i'm not going to
you're so beautiful, you have cotton candy hair
and a big round moon-face
but maybe i'm just lonely, there's this boy and he's so wonderful
three states away wonderful
and the highway hasn't got hands to hold me
and it's so perfect and awful because we're meant for it,
we know it,
but we can't and it won't.
is this healthy? says sara to me, and i don't answer because
my life is not made up of carbohydrates and proteins
(but god, you're beautiful.)
121510There is just this: a streetlamp nimbus catching raindrops as they plummet to earth, your fingers on the steering wheel, some church steeple tapering its gentle way into the sky like it belongs there. God, it's pouring, I should take you home and the warm cadence of your breaths around the yellow tip of a cigarette. I was born on a tuesday, will die on a tuesday, and my funeral will be the waves beating upon the shoreline, a sailor's dirge that overshadows the moonlight. You spread your arms and wish for something expansive, fabulous, and I keep chewing on the little porcelain koala figurine I keep in my pocket until you pull over and kiss me, and I pull the cigarette from between your fingers and sigh into the gearshift.
the science of silence.your arms form a barrier, blocking out all sound,
there is nothing but you.
you are the only thing that
can make a buzzing fan
sound like a butterfly;
a creaking house
like a lullaby.
moaning wind and soft footsteps,
tickings of clocks, downstairs.
but you made it feel like a soft cocoon;
a weightless wall of something golden:
"silence is good in its absolution,"
The stormCartilage-smooth azure extends
above bent heads.
Furrows s t r e t c h b e y o
the edge n
My WinterCardinals will
from the branches like
and the sky will turn to smoke.
The ground crunches under your feet and its
Almost as if you could
across the ice.
Brandished behind screens of glass
are fists of ivory
They are covered in scratches and
from the dark like magnolia blossoms.
napoleon at sevenan old guitarist sitting
on a watercolor hill,
plucking on six strings absent.
two halves of breasts running near
under van gogh's starry night,
under black-white guernica.
everything in all jigsaws,
everything in trepid cubes.
a girl before a mirror
with violin and guitar,
sitting with three musicians
and a woman with her book,
stippling all realities
of intangible maternity.
hours yielding from dalí's clock,
minutes sub-the alchemist
like rain, like raining, like rained—
portraits wilt with abstract smiles.
clear sfumato, oh still life,
napoleon at seven.
The Vampire and His Servant I The Vampire and his Servant
As I fall on the withered ground,
I stare up at the darkening sky,
Tears pouring from my pleading eyes.
I want to be free from this hell
Light footsteps sound, stepping toward me.
I turn my head, slowly, the fear sending chills down my spine
Making my heart cold.
He walks towards me, his graceful legs carrying him closer.
His long black hair whips against his pale face
As a sudden wind makes contact with his slender body
As he reaches me, he kneels down in front of my crumbled body.
I flinch visibly and turn my head a
winter footnoteswinter footnotes
your elbows were anchors
in a softly-lit parking lot,
where you sang to glass and paper:
and your visions are quiet hills
your visions are shy sounds
your visions are sheep covered in frost.
like an old shoe-
that dry rasp
that leaves me covered in skin flakes,
brushed onto the wall .
I am the raised bumps in spackle-
ripped off with the sound of a poor phonograph:
in my chain link home,
a residual ghost.
losing everything i never hadit's an early morning as the sun is rising, stepping into my mother's room and moving towards her bed, careful not to disturb the dark shadows on the walls, or the lulling silence that's filling the steps between us, i ask her when she wearily opens her eyes, "why was i born?"
her face held no expression, and she didn't reply
she didn't reply
i might as well not have gotten out of bed today.
i might as well be -
and sometimes as i'm sitting in the passenger seat, i lose track of where i'm headed. i lose track of the fact that i'm moving, i'm moving somewhere slowly across a map. i'm moving with the world, and i'm just one person out of so many. so fucking many. i watch the rode beneath the tires blur passed us. i watch the clouds drift along with us, the trees look like ghosts. i feel the time move along with us, as the sun falls to the floor and gives up letting the stars take it's place. the moon has painted my skin white, just as i sputter out my words and let them fade
brushing the willow,
swallow many branches, while
brushing the willow
they hear the
scratch, the bark
at the back of your throat.
Scratch the bark,
they hear the
brushing the willow,
They hear the
scratch, the bark
at the back of your throat;
scratch the bark
they hear the
brushing the willow
satan threw me a slumber partyim tired
of you, and
im tired of
im tired of OCD,
im tired of poetry,
im tired of counting
and miscounting sheep,
im tired of losing my mind
to cosmetic con artists who make
more money than banks,
who make more sense
than a vending machine;
who make their mind up,
not minding their dirty,
oh, how i envy those poisoned Disney Princesses
im tired of blitzkrieg alarm clocks that snooze louder than me,
im tired of vinyl pinups (un)dressing up my hypnophobic lids
im tired of the poltergeist who keeps fucking up cushion clouds
im tired of my revolving eyelash nightmares opening too soon;
and im most certainly tired of the technicolor monsters
living six feet under my bed
the ones that scream me caffeinated lullabies,
beneath bedlam bedbugs, to scare me awake,
so i can daydream of dormancy
the next morning.
the crows have risen,
and the roosters snore
until i wake u
wet october lucy blamed it on the trumpet whisper-whining in the corner without a player
and how i got bored filling up my little jar of sorrows, and now have something
empty stitched into the back of my throat.
on how my eyelids drooped a hair,
the mudstains on naomi's new shoes
and how i moved my arms to look like an alice-in-wonderland clock, secretly
LithiumA single trickling rain drop
Like gossamer silk strands
Gliding along my third eye
Whispers wind's secret caress
I exhale. Lungs releasing-
Pressing translucent memories;
Fragment of a fragment
As water kisses rose petal,
Drifting down stream's curtain
Pretty little curtain.
Where the wizard lies.
He smiles up at me
With his monocled brow-
Sipping on warm tea
And fingers quacking casually
To the rhythm of his notes
This is a safe-zone. Free-zone.
Innocent eyes sparkle,
Imploring it to be true. I breathe.
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^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