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on sitting across from a stranger at davis libraryi wonder if anyone has ever sat
across from you and wrote a poem about you
even though they don't know you.
i wonder if anyone has ever done
this for me. i hope when you go home
you don't wash your hair. i like that it's messy
and long. if i were a ladybug i would like to sleep
there. i would tunnel just beneath the top layer
and shudder my wings to a close and have dreams of fields
of wheat. i hope you can see how this is a good thing.
and i hope you don't change your clothes. i hope you wear
a sweater everywhere you go. i like that the one you're wearing now
is brown and without a pattern. its not ambitious or pretentious. if i
were a flea, i'd perch on your shoulder for company until i got hungry.
i wouldn't bite you and wouldn't know why in my tiny insect mind.
i hope you never wear contacts, and i hope sometime you fall
asleep with your glasses on. i hope you never talk on the telephone
except once a week to your grandmother. i hope you never peel your stickers
off your laptop, no
i'm writing againthe last few notes
of yellow ledbetter
was the first crackle
of the radio when we dropped
acid by the ocean. it
was the most beautiful sound
i had ever heard.
and when the walls were
filling up with black red
blood and turning, delicately,
my life was wrapped around your
wooden frame, and your eyes
were spaceless visions
of a dead star. your name, ah
i roll it over my fingers
in your car i am a desert singer.
the wind scrapes my arm and weeps
with all the colors of green that
i've never even seen before. for once
i forget the mantra, 'we are the worst
things we ever did. nothing less. nothing
more.' and i tell you that i want to go fast.
well the day passed into night
and the sky was big and black as an oven,
with the moon as yellow as an orgasm, and just as bright
we watched it devour the water and spit
from it's belly to the tide. in your ear i say,
'open wide, open wide.' we are just as
heavy as we are light.
it's good to stay
tethered to the earth,
to have my feet in the ground,
on being a woman'what's a pretty lady
like you doin' smokin' cigarettes?'
'if i fucked you
for every time i've
you wouldn't think i was such
a lady anymore,
and what's a clever fella like you
doing minding my business for me,
i am not a lady-
i do not curve my appetites,
i do not curve through the waist and hips,
i please for my own pleasure,
i soak in my own sweat,
i fuck for my own glory.
tiddly tum, hidden harems and come,
i am the singular player in my play,
i am the prologue, intermission, and final act
every love i have known has been fueled by
my own fury, every discovery dug up by my own
destiny, every body of water i touched, i touched
with my own skin, i am not domestic, i am imported-
virgin beer on saintly lips, i am not comely nor
forthcoming, i offer my bed to no soldier, i take
what i can and give what i can, i do not plea or
placate or play the victim with my eyelashes-
my father says one day, i will be a lady and
take my rightful place to the left and behind
on excusesthe floor creaked with a pressing tone
and my toes crept sadly toward you.
i heard the sounds
deep inside of your throat-
before they could come out,
before you could think them,
before you could stutter an
i was up all night and
the thought that, you,
were sleeping somewhere
naked, with your fingers
stretching and your dreams
retching up what you couldn't
admit to awake- was too much for me.
maybe if i
was next to you while you
were dreaming, your body
would admit to me that you
loved me. and you wanted to make
me cum. it had been so long.
you blinked hard, fast
your eyes shaking, dying fish.
i pulled you apart
like the ribbons on
an awfully wrapped
birthday present- slow, and
sad, and then fast. i wanted you
to see how bad my skin felt
when you weren't loving
our feet tangled together,
roots of a forgotten
pine tree with a heart
and four initials carved
in it- and i was never superstitious
but if you make a tree a liar
something bad happens to you, right?
if you make me
nervosa, cute devil'thin thin thin
it doesn't matter what i
am wrapped in as long as i look
apple? 55 calories. i will be
as small as my mother's salary
(she doesn't work, yeah ) 55 of 200
for the day if i even allow myself
i keep thinking of pat and the
way his bones stuck out like spider legs
when the cancer came. i keep thinking
of the swing and the way we swang
under trees with stars for limbs.
the way you held my small southern
wrist when you sunk down south to lick-
good kitty kitty. eat up. eat while
i am still enough. i keep thinking of
how mommy didn't say anything for months
when she walked in on me bare-assed
choking on stomach acid. i keep thinking of
when i was thirteen and daddy told me
skinny jeans were for skinny girls.
i keep thinking about how the world
is ugly and there is no room for
any more ugly in it.
on dying youngdeath is senseless, and in this
infinite senselessness there is a loss
of words. a loss of hope. a loss of
the Great unifier- the uninhibited
inhibitor, the petulant bird of prey
soaring over all heads, landing and plucking
from our masses the young, the old, the
wicked, and the innocent- the fortunate
and the unfortunate alike.
i have walked myself through eighteen years-
a small, contemptuous age: bent on destroying
everything, and keeping all the rest-
a timeless, weary age, popular culture demands
that these are the best years of life, when you
have not yet known it. and i am not denying
that i have lived-
many a night, i have sat on rooftops,
questioning my favor, questioning the gods,
smoking was the big fuck you, the proclamation
that i would not tremble at death's feet,
that i would welcome it, that i would
tower over it, my entrails glittering
upon my wrist. my lungs hanging blackly from
my ears. i realize the staunch idiocy of both
smoking, and not smoking, of tryin
body tunefor matt, still
in the dark.
you will hear
the quiet hum
of your body.
it is vibrating
with the tender
love of each season.
this is a call
to strengthen the hum-
but believe in everything.
challenge the barriers
of skin and claim the atmosphere,
stroke your nature
and become a radical,
radical in the sense
that you're doing
what you were meant to
do, which is never what
they want you to do,
become a radical in the sense
that you can lay in the dark
and hear the quiet hum of your body.
and know all that it means
to ever-bleeding eye
new year'sgotcha all loved up on pills
your hair feels sexy and my
eyes are thin and filled
with jelly. you go as deep
as my belly and then go
deeper. i say 'you can be
the steeple and i'll be the
preacher.' i say 'you can be
the football and i'll be the
bleachers.' somehow i was
trying to tell you that you
can have all the glory, you
can read my palms and create
got me all fucked up on pills.
my body eats pain and pukes up
thrills. the thing i like most
about it all is pills or no pills,
frills or no frills- you're still
my sweetheart. and i love you and
god couldn't have made you apart
whatever you do don't stop breaking my hearti'm not ready to give in but
i can feel you breathing regret
& resignation. i can feel you
breathing underwater in
between our bodies. i can feel
you feeling less & less &
it feels more real
than drowning & it's worse
& it keeps getting worse
like knowing you
will die a slightly
different death every day.
cut me offpeter crying on the phone
still a little drunk
"i fucked up so bad. i'm so sorry"
yes darling you did sweet sweet peter with the blue eyes
like little doves.
i just wanted you to love me, i wanted you to touch me.
the tiny prayers of your fingertips across my body that would somehow make me better
or at least that is what i told myself.
peter kissing me in the staircase
tasting like coke and freedom. the bruise coloured
feeling of wanting you.
peter tapping on my knee
peter crying in my arms
peter yelling at me
peter without me
tangled up in blue eyesHer hair was the kind of brown where you just knew she was born blonde. Eyes, big and bright, filled with a wonder I couldn't name or place. She kept a ribbon tied in her hair; never yellow, it reminded her of mothers and children. She was a mystery to everyone and a misery to me.
They said that the colour of her skin was something that resembled perfection. White porcelain with peach undertones, something of a doll; a child made from china, painted colourful with deft fingers scarred blue.
Curiousity got the best of me and I looked too deep, too quickly; oceanic blue eyes that shifted like they'd already drowned every living soul that had stepped too close, sand-lined belly full, sated. I started to wish I'd learnt to swim but the waves were almost poetic, I kept yelling and each of my syllables would form a bubble that would float the surface and be lost. That was easy enough to explain with the laws of physics and the taste of salt water in my throat.
When i yelled at her in the hou
nataliahave you ever watched somebody
it is the scariest thing. it's like watching
the little kids in scary movies that
open the door and don't turn on
the lights. the ones that forget to grab
the golf clubs from under their beds
when they go to check the backyard.
it's like watching someone get lost in the woods.
when you know you burned the last map
under the last tree and when you know
something slender shadowy and sly lies
just behind the branches. and they laugh
and think wow
there is finally something happening in my life.
and you think no, no, there's been plenty
happening, I swear this isn't the kind of happening
they dress it up like it's something
beautiful. or something to make a good story out of.
no. you will see it and it will
scare you. you will say don't. you will say
it's not worth it. no. you'll learn how hard it is
to talk someone down when they're so dead-set
on doing what they're doing. as if they
understand it. as if you're the one that doesn't.
a sense of beingfor a while it
was only you and i
in the dark of
the kitchen, the mess from
the previous night
closing in on
us, you said
forget this lets
stood on your toes
spun to the nonexistent
beat of the dishwasher
fell down laughing
and one morning
i don't know
you left, the dogs
howling in the yard
the house blew over
in the breathless wind
and i don't have dreams
about you anymore
and i wonder if i'll
cry the day you'll come
belmonti miss march
and it's funny, you know, i
don't remember most of it
just like last year with
muddy vision &
i managed to write
76 different things
the scraps of paper on my floor
all pretty the same, but at least i
still felt i could speak.
i keep trying to find the words
what it felt like
to watch my best friend leave
to kiss her that last time
to slowly watch
the smile in his voice
when he said,
this is the happiest i have ever been
in a long time
and i wish i had given us
or the look on
my ex lover's best
when i was sighing and
bruising small circles into
my inner thighs
like i once
long ago when
it would snow and it was
too cold for him to
be riding his bike over
in the dipped
indigo of the night
and he did
long ago when i was
more concerned with proving them wrong
less concerned with getting dead
though these songs, so certain
seventeen of them have bee
we landed in oklahoma
and drank cheap martinis in the terminal;
you carried my guitar and fell in love
with my voice but not my tongue,
not my hands.
there's a man with a garage
that looks like a plane because nothing
meant more to him. will you make a model
of that bar? will you make a model
of my red cheeks? or will you live in a townhome
with her and three children?
the problem was you're not gay.
the problem was there was feeling
but it wasn't for us. i had you but
it wasn't for us.
i'm not sure if i resent you,
but i remember that bar and every pockmark
on the stool you sat on while i played
the song that parted your lips;
you remember every pockmark in oklahoma
like they were ours.
things the hurricane season taught her-don't make tea when your insides are more
blue than pink.
the leaves soak it up and leave it watery and bland
- its the things that aren't really there that stick
in your throat the most
- goodbyes never get easier
- far away looks better until you get there
then you want somewhere else
- don't poke the ache. it won't
just turn off like you're pressing a button
it will run further and deeper
or burst and spread
- the fog in your chest
wont disperse from breathing
in and out as many times as you can
you'll just lose your sight
and hit the floor
- she had loved him from
on people as placestw,
the elementary school playground
i still sit on the swings
you were the house i grew up in
and grew tired of,
so very familiar;
every secret door revealed
every hiding spot
i couldn't help but linger
long after it
you are the forest
i have been too afraid to wander in
so beautiful and inviting
so full of poisonous
you were the last car
on a train: temporary,
in transit and moving
nobody can travel
the dusty hotel room
i got comfortable in for
a few days, the one i
found love in
but hotel rooms belong to no one
and i shouldn't have been so
surprised to find that
someone else had been
you were the
girl down the street's
littered with red solo
and not much
you are the back room
of someone else's
the one i've come to hide in
when i can no longe
i just liked the way this sounded in my headmy breath was like dropping cold
keys on a colder kitchen counter. i was gray
with an a for a day when you went
a way. on your own you trumpeted
the clouds and sent for "Los Angelos"
as your mexicana abuela would say-a.
you asked me what
to do with my
mother's china set. throw it away. i said,
burn it. you did not
ask me about this.
kay. babe i loved you a long time
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This all
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More