[x]

for onceCold

blackempty

like the cavern where crimson vellum once resided

Drenched in reticence,
your empty blue eyes do nothing
but freeze the blood in these veins

surrounded by phantoms,
i lie in the dark next to your fading silhouette
between sheets that hold so many memories,
they are empty,

like the chestnut eyes that bore into yours

And as the rain falls harder
as it falls faster

washing down the streets
through deep alleys,
down endless roads,

for

once

just

once

i pray it takes me with

EurydiceHis voice enveloped me, and I became
Myself again--I heard it in the song:
A mordent on a note he held too long;
A stutter in his voice. I heard my name
In these and felt a happiness the same
As when I saw him first. Oh, I had longed
To hear him sing again, but this last song--
It was so beautiful. And it remains
The best of human works, though none shall hear
Its sorrowed notes; the lyre's meand'ring tune
Through vast arpeggios and Death's expanse
Except the dead. It will not disappear
'Till all the world's destroyed, and hell's exhumed--
Such music must be worth a backwards glance.

Star SwallowerShe's
an enigma.
her head, a stadium drowning with applause.
yet its seats are empty like the notebooks
where armies of words should be marching.
instead she dismantles clocks
thinking she can play with time.
behind the mountains lurks a darker reasoning
a twisted labyrinth of rationalizations
hidden from the suns brilliance.

Years alone beneath the bleached fluorescent
reading those already dancing in the moonlight.
she is living a literary half-life through them
hiding from the symmetry of the writer.
licking salty rocks of excuses.
saving her secrets for posthumous excavation.
decades of productivity left for moths to chew.
you're throw

starspunobserving the romanticism
of hooded cemetery kids,
smoking cigarettes pretending
they are not dead.

you were always so sure
about my uncertainty,
you watched
all my pick up lines
drop things.

we built the heat
of the evening from the solidity
of starlight,

pretended
that two teens at the park
at midnight
is the stuff of teen novels
(cliches dim on
our leaf-gold horizon)

your eyes darted
from the gray expanse
of the churchyard & wandered
in thoughtful
paths.

i wanted to ask you
if i could follow. shove
the words aside &
remember that i came here alone.

i remember our innocence
in the static b e t w e e n
stars

The SculptorBefore he would have harvested a tree,
hacked off its limbs,
skinned it,
torn it from the earth,
shaved one by one its cells - its outer core,
until it was what he believed it was,

no more a tree.

Wiser, he walks deep in to the wood,
underneath a forest giant he stops,
looks up in to the leafy branches, sighs,
climbs and sheds his tears upon its boughs.

despondenti.

"are you sleepy today?"
"yes."
"but you were sleepy yesterday."
"i know."

ii.

she stirs her pomegranate green-tea until it turns from clear to purple
setting it on her bedside table and climbing back into bed again.
her fingers follow the bluer-than-usual constellation veins on her wrists and down
to the freckle on her forearm and then the scar on the inside of her elbow
crossing the tendon as if it were crux.
and then she remembered that God hasn't been with her lately.

iii.

today is long and sunny but when she steps outside the humidity creaks her bones
and her skin starts to inflame.
she assumes that if getting the mail

A Product Label.Love. (Requited Edition)

Directions:
Apply thoroughly all over body
Avoiding contact with delicate eye area
Repeat on a regular basis
For best results:
Use in conjunction with other products.

Keep stored in a cool place
Keep out of reach of children
Do not use if seal is broken or missing
Choking hazard
Do not swallow
For external use only.

If irritation occurs, discontinue use-
Rinse eyes immediately with water
If symptoms persist
Seek medical advice or see your doctor
Handle contents with care.

Golden Ink and Going BackI thought I was in love with that four-year old red-haired boy
Shining in a silver knight costume with a black dragon sewn on
Because I was in the pink Sleeping Beauty Dress

I was a good Belle, too
(Back when I hadn't picked up a book
Except for the blue one with the golden pages
Brimming with witches and fairies and magic)

I wanted to be a princess, back then
They were the ones who always found love, at the end
I wanted to be Wendy, too
Because she wore a blue nightgown and learned to fly
Now, I'd rather be Peter Pan, honestly
Because he managed to swerve this whole ordeal of growing up
(And maybe a little because of the flying)

carouselwe laughed like children high on m&ms,
danced like we were carousel horses,
and jump-roped our way through obstacle courses.

I saved our footsteps in mason jars,
in case we ever needed to follow yellow brick roads
to get home.

home was an illusion:
honesty without truth,
apologies without forgiveness,
I kept home sandwiched between
"never" and "have to."

caroline, they'd say. caroline,
stop being such a dreamer. stop taking
us for granted.

I packed every apology possible
into my breath, left runaway plans lingering
in the silence between family.

when I found you dancing in the street,
I listened for merry-go-round music.

I

a ribcage drenched in dust i have your ribcage, you said.
what should i put in it?

i told you i'd always wanted a fire,
the kind that would fill my eyes with starlight
and pump my blood full of passion, but

you're made of wildflowers, you said.
a fire would burn you to ash.

you wanted to fill my chest with
the sound of a train, whistling
far away in the night;
with the sound of rain smacking leaves;
with the sound the wind makes
when it seems like it's trying to speak

and you wanted to throw in the
smell of midnight in august
and the feeling of sand being
sucked out from under your feet
when the ocean inhales,
and the strange little moment of
bitter

the back of your head against my washed pillowcaseI find it
disconcerting
that
you are the King
of my own Head
& that I am
subjugated
by my own
temptation

My bones, your
welcome mats,
cushioned
to your insatiable
satisfaction

--

I find this
discomforting,
your constant
rebirths in my
libido, despite
three years of
silent therapy,
false recovery
& worshipping
the wrong gods

you are the best muse
for struggling artists
everywhere & worst
case of the bubonic plague
since the bubonic plague

--

I find you
disenchanted
in the middle
of any where,
peeling flesh,
lulling sullen
sirensongs at
3AM

I shot a flock
of phoenixes
& ate Adam's
poison apple

6.12There are days when I recall the litany of your kisses over my shoulders and I wonder, numbly disconsolate, how I ever maintained my disbelief in god, when your movements over me were so profoundly biblical, when my name filtering between the fog of our joined breaths was so much like a prayer - when I would think, for those minutes or hours or days we spent locked in the grip of fever, unaware of the movement of those heavenly bodies outside the reach of our bed, that there was hope for me after all. That I could be saved.

I remember so clearly the feeling of loving you and I wonder at what point, when it was, the exact moment, when that lo

blue baby bluesi.
     peacock feathers of smoke
     brush over my calves

     the plumage working its way
     through the stockings & skin
     to nestle into the muscle

     where it will root like an acorn
     and grow into an oaken pair of wings

     to lift my feet from hardwood floors
     so i can dance
     with my knuckles brushing against the ceiling fan

ii.

The Cat on the PorchYou asked me why I do not believe in ghosts,
celestial at four in the morning.
It becomes the common hour,
not a biting static shock in the eye veins like I anticipated
but dangerously vogue and precious
like a real diamond ring or sapphires on your breast.
No wood pecking or oil teasing or misshapen duck bills bleating
just clay, but lighter, lightest
and bright
seductive and crestfallen.

They bled Peter and Pangloss over a river.
I was wearing white for the funeral
humming 'home', the matronly letters
soothe me
clotheshorses and moonlight,
Mayan jewellery in my cabinet
the mother tongue kissing my molars better

But then there

mutethings have been easier
without words &
we pretend neither of us care;

we stutter
splutter
laughing and choking
on puns &

when you bend me over nouns
i scream

louder
growl
more fluent.

the words are there waiting to be spoken

me . you . love

my dear, we've been mute
for so long

speak to me.

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 963 bytes more ▶

More from ~Satah

fundamental frequency oh, lover

-- and i am sorry,
as ever,
for calling you that--

your voice still rings
unlike any other
through any amount of wall
or space

its cadence and tone
turning my head
as if you were screaming my name
over and over

but if anything is
over
it's our days
of name-screaming

so with all apologies
for my terms of endearment,
i beg you, my love,
to please be careful
where you speak

because every small vibration
of your throat
is tectonic plates shifting
under my feet

quod erat demonstrandum cyanide and sharpie fumes
seem out of place
metres away from stretching joggers

but here i am

looking sad
on a beached anchor
with a cigarette in the hand
that isn't diggings its claws
into my thigh

while a stranger lays on a towel
pulling his knees
up to his bare chest
exhaling carefully
with his ribs sticking out

he says,
"peaceful day,
isn't it?"

and i comment
on how unseasonable it is

and we sit in our different worlds
with our headphones off
in quiet appreciation of the company

and i know it's such a ti

it is the west, and you are the moon     the sun is setting
     and soft light spills in
     to rest in the cup
     of your cheekbones
     like my breath fills the dip in your collar

     overflowing and rolling like fog
     over the early-morning meadow of your chest

     so that i have to kiss
     down your ribs
     and rest my lips on your navel
     to breathe it all in

three weeks 'til a new yearyou root your hand
to my spine
to keep yourself balanced,

rhapsodising melodically
to the crunching bass
of a home-grown techno track
recorded by some kid
with garageband and a synthesizer

while i'm bent over
to do my last line

and as i stand up
you slide your fingers up my back,
pushing your palms into the muscles
tensing up in my shoulders

the clock reads 11:59
and you kiss me
so that we can dive into tomorrow
with our lungs connected

... but platonicallymy dreams are mostly
barely-altered instances
of my reality:

the weight of the blankets
pushing up against the passive coldness
of unheated early may air,

her legs falling onto mine,
feet working their way under knees,
hips sliding closer together but never
quite touching,

with our arms remaining wrapped
around our own chests and throats,
our backs still pressed against the mattress,
our eyes still closed,

seeking warmth
and connection
only from the waist down

altricialoh
christ

my bird metaphors are getting
all fucked up

while you sit on his bed
with your mouth open,
turning your face toward me
with eager eyes,

waiting for me to bring you
things that i cannot regurgitate

because my throat is all clogged
with the remnants of people like you

who i pulled in and chewed up

so i tip my bottle
towards your tongue
and move my hips
like a boa constrictor
winding around its prey,

knowing you, like the others,
will mistake my predatory grin
for requited lust

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

#CRLiterature
CR hub for Literature Community!

#SolutionsSanctuary

#All-Art-Wanted
Every ART accepted

#CreativvMinds
We accept all art!

Details

Submitted: May 9, 2012
File Size: 963 bytes

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 74
Favourites: 200 [who?]
Views: 3,228 (10 today)
Downloads: 171 (0 today)

[x]

the eyepatch and the handcuffs

by ~Satah, May 9, 2012, 11:03:19 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

     his hands have promised
     to wipe off every fingerprint
     your last lover left on you

     he has sworn he will
     wear gloves, when he needs to,
     and pay attention to the instructions on the boxes

     "this side up"
     and "fragile"

     and you have sworn
     you will try to let him

     i hear your bodies whispering these things to each other
     when you think i'm asleep
     and i've seen your nervous window-glances
     when he is mumbling oaths into your neck

     you still cherish the swirling bruises
     because you think they're all you deserve
     but i have heard the poems your skin writes
     when it is against his
     and they make me want to throw down my pen
     in envy