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Literature Text
-- this is appropriation
my sweet synchronicity ,
i have downed your appetite
in a bed of front teeth
do i taste of
your forethought
the posture of your spine?
my sweet synchronicity ,
i have downed your appetite
in a bed of front teeth
(it is morning in perth
midnight in dublin, and the noon
sun has been lost behind
a dress of mothy curtains)
do i taste of
your forethought
of love making;
do i reek of
the weeds that
do i reek of
the weeds that
have infiltrated
the posture of your spine?
-
you bend over
my lap a curve of guilt
and weep all night.
i collect each knob of your body
i collect each knob of your body
like a gift. press it to my mouth.
swallow, spit.
Literature
you're a subliminal message
i can list every nickname
you've ever called me as if
they were members of my family and i
can recall every time you’ve ever
sang in my ear during class. i know
how many times we’ve snuck away from our friends --
not because of any particular reason,
your heart just ached, longed
for that familiar sense of me.
or at least, i hope.
because you seem to feel the skin of
every other girl and you seem
to always be able to keep on
a conversation with them,
it's just impossible to feel anything towards
me and impossible to not
make me feel
something. anything at all
and everything at once.
or maybe you just don't know
what
to feel t
Literature
stonemaze
sometimes, I pretend
our home is tinnitus
I scrape pine needles
into a horizontal bowl.
twisted scenery
settling in like snow
inside my finger
bones, stirring
up sparks. he
may be the last
explosive, a
fire fight that bites
through my palms;
may be the last
crackling
monolith to collect
spacedust on
his loneliness.
I should be left alon
Literature
we're all drunk and always have been
no
i haven't felt smaller than this before
and it could be
because i don't breathe poetry in
and out -
in
and out,
in
and out -
i write it under my eyebrows
with the precision
of a drunk sniper
toasted into admission
with irony s-st-tutter-ering
down his throat.
you wouldn't take a damned bullet for me.
beautiful is a word kept
for the rise
and fall
of her tidal chest,
not my shallow breath,
not my sunset, heartfelt,
hollow silhouette.
i would have disappeared
between your accusing index and
neglected thumb -
rub me,
rub me?
rub her
rub her
don't you feel calmer?
no
i haven't felt smaller than this
before.
i haven't felt sma
Suggested Collections
when i used to get sad or angry i would write to make myself feel better. now i stare at walls or curl up in bed and i don't want to do that anymore.
also, coffee. which is a drug. which isn't a drug. but it is. and it awakens me and makes me want to write for three hours.
also, coffee. which is a drug. which isn't a drug. but it is. and it awakens me and makes me want to write for three hours.
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