[x]

pull a marilyni am not okay.
i'm trying to tell you that i could -

-

today could be the day i go off the deep end.
it seems like it's harder to breathe,
like maybe i can't keep doing this.
how long could one person go on like this,
living from one breath to the next
and trying to forget what oxygen tastes like?

pull a marilyn.
why the fuck not?
even she'd had more to live for.
the beauty you could murder,
so long as you had the right motive.
and if there was no beauty,
it was just waste and absence.

-

i am not okay.
i'm trying to tell you that i could die,
could roll over and think end and then nothing.

next thing we're touchingyou put the moon out with your cigarette as everything around you began to dim. you stirred the stars around as your body swayed against the porch lights, as you lifted the twenty-sixer to your lips.
you turned to me and said, "lets show this world what we're made of."

yes baby
lets fuckin' show them.

we had our first kiss right there.

-

honest to god,
i'm not colour-blind, i just see colourless colour
i'm not starry-eyed, i just reached out and tore the sky down the middle

-

i still remember the salt strewned in the air as we fucked on the shore. it was one of those days where there was a lulling silence, a silence so serene it w

the origin of poetsHe's 15 and the world is new to him. He recently discovered the beauty in dew-sprinkled spiderwebs and girls with curls in their hair and cherry cola lips. Eccentric, sure, but normal enough to walk unacknowledged amongst a crowd of teenagers, he himself unaware of the devastating power he could have if he just got hold of a pen. But he doesn't. He's too busy being a boy, and doing what boys do, like eating and sleeping and perspiring and sleeping.

He doesn't see things in colours or shapes. Instead he sees things in metaphors and puns and allegories, although he's having trouble seeing what the hidden meaning is. But boys like hi

losing nothingsimon is laughing on the balcony
the cigarette he stole dangling from his lips
the bruises he acquired glowing on his shins
he is tapping his chucks into the concrete
like some 1920's oliver twist
just an imaginary tune
just a boy with nothing left to lose

there are faded x's stained on his hands
from the late august concerts we ran away to

simon is leaning in the foyer
the sweater i knitted him hanging from his wire frame
the faint smile he borrowed hanging from his hollow cheeks
he is tapping his nicotine fingers along the banister
like the legs of little people
just somewhere else to go
just someone else to hold

there is pl

17She feels at home in abandoned places
Because they remind her of herself
She has an empty room for a heart and
Blank windows for eyes.

There's a lot to be said for the
Beauty of cracked floorboards and shattered glass
Reflecting sunlight streaming through broken shutters
Catching dust particles and memories
And the knowledge that some day someone will pick up the pieces.

his caged birds don't singit was like when we were five
and unable to drown the fish
in your mother’s aquarium.
we later realized that we could drown them.
we could do so by taking them out of water
and we did.

it was like when we were ten
and i would find you in the backyard
of your moss-covered house,
sitting on a lawn chair with bare feet
and rolled up jeans.
you would sit there all day,
filling plain paper with pictures and words
that no one would ever understand.

it was like when we were fifteen
and you would spend your time standing
as close to the cliff as you could without falling –
but i think you were secretly h

truth.i'm trying to make this as
meaningful as possible but my
meanings are full of bullshit.

nevertimes.
most of the time, i like to call you my own. this is when i wake up drooling over the telephone with my skirt twisted around my waist. when you are mine, i eat strawberries all the time and pretend my name is something like mrs. summershine and you are mr. summershine and i don't know if my mother remembers i dyed my hair red to match what used to be your favorite dress.

sometimes, i like to call you stephen because my father's name was stephen and i never knew him but my mother's sister told me he snorted aspirin and i remember trying it when i was seven. when i was twenty-seven i remember that all i remembered of june twenty-second was s

dakotai wake up tasting of cigarettes and -
it's funny because i don't even smoke.

see, i heard about this girl who smoked in secret for fifteen years.
not even her family or closest acquaintances knew.

but i think it's quite fantastic.

i used to wonder why she never told anyone.

she had -
some friends,

friends that made her laugh.
friends that she kissed.
friends that made her laugh but she would never dream of kissing.
friends that kissed her but often made her cry.

i suppose she spent more time kissing and inhaling then opening her mouth.

she'd sit in open third storey windows and wear cheap heavy perfume.
she had polished nails a

what happenedher face is a galaxy –
they are all her stars.

she's walking
and running
while holding hands
with the boys
that like boys and
the girls that like
girls and
they're screaming
and laughing
and singing
but just for today.

she can give you
everything
and take it all away
in a matter of
seconds,
showing you that
it's not the way it is
in the movies –
          life is not as
        beautiful when
          you are
        b

sweet home-

on venus

hearts would cluster in
ladybug swarms— pulsing
anxiety, wings courting light—
to seek the advice of this
rosette-clad oracle.

i'd reply with a
delphic smile,

tenderly pronounce love as
a tea leaf only the holder
can divine and

send them on their way,
infatuation crowning their
arteries like a dandelion-seed
halo; besotted bewilderment
diffusing in the cosmic
kaleidoscope of
cupid's psyche.

-

on mars

l

the most important thingi just wanted to
be the most important thing,
just for fucking once.

letter to selfdear five year-old me,

life isn't going to be easy for many, many years.
there's something wrong with you, but you don't know it. your parents aren't going to love each other anymore and they'll fight for awhile before leaving. you aren't going to have many friends.
honestly, no one is really going to care about you.

.

dear thirteen year-old me,

i know everyone makes fun of you, but that's okay.
pretty soon there will be a boy, and he'll make you feel better than you have in years, and you'll have a few good friends. but then all of them will leave anyway. by the time you're sixteen, there'll be no one.

. .

dear sixteen year-old me,

Black DressesBlack dresses
Pulled up to little girl's knees
Chasing after
Leaves; falling
Or
Dancing on
Breaths

Low slung
Black dresses
Pulled up to your thigh
High heels
Clacking
Through the parking lot
Chasing after
Dreams
You left in the bottle at the bar

That’s how I remember you

jokesi promise that i will always amuse;
proud pieces of promiscuity
and vivacious displays of vulgarity.
surprising fountains of profanity
spouting from the mouths of barely babes,
but i want you to know something.
i am not the laughs under your tongue
i am not the smile upon your lips
i may never be without one of the two
but they do not define who i am.
there are half-baked scars burned, but raw
stretching across my face and they
curve at the right piece of time,
parting for the red sea of dead cells
i'll pretend doesn't exist at all.
just because i'm the funny girl
because my nose is a touch bulbous
my voice a sound raucous
a

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bananas in the summer
there are shadows walking on my walls and their legs are longer than their bodies and they only move around when you call me.

"Jesus, Mary," you say which i think is kind of fucked up because you don't believe in jesus and i borrowed his mother's name (she was a whore do you hear me a goddamn whore).

you only say that when you don't know what to say and i don't say anything and sometimes you are sighing and sometimes you are smiling and i get really uncomfortable when you sigh and i feel kind of sticky between my thighs and if i ever told you that you would smile and say, "Jesus, Mary." and i would cry and wear my hair in braided pigtails

your break lights broken,
september| i missed you so i pressed my ear to the wall and traced the traintrack veins on my thigh that you slit with the broken bones in your right wrist. (i noted your right is the hand you smoke and write with.)

december: you wrote me and there was no greeting or closing just 'i miss you?' in pale sharpie letters, (i smiled at the pointed curve in your question mark.) on crinkled newspaper. (it was an article about a fuck and then a stab.) i thought it was supposed to symbolize something (the way you gutted me when you were touching me.) so i painted my nails a louisiana red and tied my hair back with black lace i ripped from my underw

high heels and hemp.charlie,

i smiled at your father and i was thinking, "i had a lot of fun having sex with your daughter" and his eyes were flitting like blinds and i was thinking of your lips tugging on mine and i walked away after he said "hello." i am tired of hearing that home has a heartbeat and if it does then i guess yours is a cigarette cough and a sinew snap. everything about you was replaced when you left. last time i saw you, your hair looked tired and your eyes were flat. i think you've lost your mind and i know how you can get it back.

-victoria

i don't know what you're saying anymore, tori.
i mean sometimes i wish i could tell you that i mis

cocaine summers,winters

he told me he always fell for girls that were in love with other girls. you will fall in love with me faster than moonbeams break, i said. you will fall in love with me quicker than our eyes will meet. and you did.

you told me this on the seventeenth day i knew you and i only remember this because i wasn't supposed to. i was strung out on endless highways, cocaine, (you).

you pulled over to snort another line when a girl i was sleeping with called and i told her i loved her right in front of you. (after she hung up, i decided i didn't love her at all.)

'that's fucked up. that's really fucked up.'

i smiled.
______________/midnight intro

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osteolysis

by ~diddlyhohum, Jan 21, 2010, 2:41:01 PM
Literature / Poetry / Philosophical / Spoken Word

vela has summer inside of her
bones and they are breaking
open for us and that's all we
really need to know about
vela.

*

summer says vela i do not like it
here, it is too cold for me. we turn
our pockets inside out and tell
vela what to do with our dream dust.
she says okay and cremates clocks
and assigns days colors like dried tobacco
or necrophilia or lice. (orange, black and
white.)

we get jealous of the pretty things
she does with our dream dust
and tell her to give it back.
she says no. (hell no.)
we make her scrub our floors
with the calluses on her hands
while we steal her brand of
emphysema.

*

we watch television.
vela tends the sheep.
i throw my intestines in the toilet.
vela sows what we will reap.
you burn the stove.
vela sweeps in and cuts the pasta
from our hair.

*

it is five seventeen on one of vela's
texas pete afternoons and she tells
us what she saw:

vela: god why are you smoking a cigarette

god: because they're aren't any suckers left

vela: what is your favorite flavor?

god: that isn't what i meant

and she asks us what that means
(no one believes in fairy tales anymore vela.)
but we just smack her and tell her
god is fat and only jesus smokes.

*

vela is pretty like burning kitchens are pretty.

*

vela is standing on our porch
and summer is inside of her bones
and they are breaking open for us
and that is all we really ever wanted
know about
vela.

osteolysisby ~diddlyhohum

Literature / Poetry / Philosophical / Spoken Word

_{everything is ringing.
even things i can't hear.
i dyed my hair.
i just laughed.
kthx

edit this is really different and i like human anatomy class so what}

~Avallynh Feb 28, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

^{this is so riddled with things of the strangest beauty i want to steal and keep. cremating clocks and burning kitchens are pretty -- your mind works in such startling, breathtaking ways.}

~diddlyhohum Feb 28, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

thank you very much. i wrote this a long time ago but i guess when i read it now i think it's meant to be read out loud to

~Freakomaniacadisical Apr 3, 2010

Great Work!

Here, check
Blackened Return [link]
Estranged [link]
Isolated Emotions? [link]
Indeterminate Her [link]

*AlecBell Feb 9, 2010

An enigmatic entertainment, congratulations on the DLD.

~diddlyhohum Feb 9, 2010 Hobbyist Writer

thank you (:

=DailyLitDeviations Feb 9, 2010

Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by DLD (Daily Literature Deviations) in a news article that can be found here [link]
Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by

ing the News Article.

Keep writing and keep creating.

~diddlyhohum Feb 9, 2010 Hobbyist Writer

thank you so much <333

=DailyLitDeviations Feb 11, 2010

It was our pleasure.

~Chikami-chan Jan 28, 2010

amazing. i really enjoyed this

~diddlyhohum Jan 28, 2010 Hobbyist Writer

_{thank you!}

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