flightyou mentioned vulnerability but that's myflight by a-secret-key
weakness. i can wash anything off, no lady
macbeth. i'm all copper and silver and
anything that conducts. the current is my currency,
soon as it's vintage, and i'm always fast.
free will is real so you
can't touch me, and
i'm a gambler
(don't remind me tomorrow if i'm grey)
but i'm invincible. someday,
i'll withdraw it all in words,
when it's sluggish and slighty off. like shifting
gears, i can skip a few on my way back
down, and i barely feel it. that's the truth.
19/05/14a sort of forcefield and the edges buzz,19/05/14 by a-secret-key
lap at my eyes like a camera lens. and that's such a dead
simile, i know, but sometimes it just
fits and besides, i'm too lazy to think of another.
did you see that? the blackbird moves across the lawn, a clot.
it picks its way through the blockages, digested flame
and burnt-up blossom, noise on my green. i watch
for a while and then i just
close my eyes.
i never knew what this meant,
still don't. the world is swollen. got a word for that?
Sea poem, Maysuch a sleek thing, the sky,Sea poem, May by a-secret-key
inside your mouth like a mist. your throat--
i concentrated the best i could.
my shoes clattered the rock-- it felt good to climb,
like i'd been somewhere.
i shut my eyes and tried noticing
--thought i'd see a glimpse, an eye-stain or a
linger, but you'd been there long enough for your skin to peel back, so
why was i wanting a handshake?
the sea was one thing, the cave another. a smooth
belly of rock, not much else. it dribbled stones out
onto the beach, a bodied white noise that bothered me. i looked so hard,
kept my face to the light and my eyes
shut against it. that's glory, i suppose,
once you boil the whole thing down and look at the bones of it,
which i did. that's what i'm trying to tell you.
sometimesi used to think this was the easy part:sometimes by a-secret-key
having something, keeping it. turns out
i'm no good with keeping--
just taking, just moving on. it's not all
bad, though, and
in the end i guess i like that so much of this
is down to me. effects
don't always have causes. sometimes
we just get tired-- tea stained
lantern sunlight. do you ever get
home is tiny in the distance. its lights?
i can barely see them--
corner of the eye,
they burst with tiny needles.
a nice thought, i guess, but maybe that's just me-- sometimes i wish
all light was firelight. it's silly, yeah,
but i'm young enough to still get why it's good
to be tangible.
sometimes my head is cotton-stuffed
and somewhere far away from caring. but then
sometimes it's just my head. i'm beginning
to get used to that--
sometimes i even fall asleep.
estherthere is a painter resting in the cosmosesther by julia-caitlin
with a poised hand, lightly wrapped
around a paintbrush, waiting to ink
the sky and banish the stars.
god is hiding with the painter,
his hand stretched out in to an egg basket,
ready to crack an egg
on the jagged mountains that rim this world
and let dawn creep up the outskirts of the sky
from time to time
i feel like i am the only watcher,
a solitary eye to this secret.
the only one who sees the silent transaction
of night and day, the only one who sees
the nimble limbs of god and his friend the painter
whisk away the dark
and present us all
with such an illuminated vault of heaven.
mirror.mirrori see my hazels in all your abstractions.mirror.mirror by chipmunku
then again, perhaps that's
the only place I'm
looking for them.
you'd never ask,
but the answer is...
I still misplace countless
for you between my
star-streaked cotton sheets.
Ours was a strings-attached situation.
and it only takes
one string to hang myself
from the lingonberry tree
outside your window.
Our Discontent Made Gloriousin winter days, mother wakes heavy-liddedOur Discontent Made Glorious by CyneNoir
as her skeleton recollects itself
in a half-thought arrangement of curious limbs,
trying to teach the ribcage
how to sew back together its columns of rough-hewn teeth
so her swelling light does not spill through open slits,
a heart anchored firmly in her chest and pushing fire
through tangled veins.
tender bones shake off lakes of snow
from where they drifted into the craters that hide
behind her knees
while the thickened night presses forests of gentle bruises into an aching spine
and counts all the ways dead trees could blossom. white-winged larks
are the first to flock to such harvests, alighting on her arms
to drink the marrow buried beneath unturned skin as they would
at cusp between
birdsong and dawn, mother
sheds away the faces of the moon.
each phase pools crescent-shaped
onto softly-trodden floorboards
and sighs into the curve of her ankles as her eyes
look to the west to sketch shadows against