When that boy left, he left Mama a wreck. She sat in that creaky old kitchen rocker, her thin hair disheveled above clammy, transluscent skin, her black, birdlike eyes glittering like beetles, sunken and strange in her pale face. She moaned whenever anyone passed, but without looking at them, her hands in frantic and mechanical motion knitting row after row of snarled thread. "I let that boy into my house!" she muttered. Occasionally she would get up and pace back and forth across the kitchen, restlessly wiping at various surfaces with a greying little dish towel clutched in her bony fingers.
Then Joey and I
Welcome to my mal de vivre
the marvelous mouth of my miscontent.
Come. Sit with the paper dolls
in a room where the days hang
thick as curtains and hot breath
Sit. Find yourself
staring at a jaw bone,
wondering at its three dimensions
Wonder. Is anyone silent?
Wonder why you look at things that
no one else could love.
Welcome to the shadows,
to campfires and the colder side.
Listen. Everything sounds
like ceiling fans.
Look. There's nothing to hold to in
any of these faces.
Face yourself.
(idly,
painfully):
How many others suffer
this impatient, impossible wrong
that cradles your hips with its long fingers?
Well no
Between Mark Wartenberg and You
July 5, 2009 at 12:11am
you
Some days this flame inside me is enough to swallow me whole, and in its eagerness, devour my lampshade, lick paint off the walls, sear the mattress beneath me to a curling charred abyss. It is a burning, twisting, malignant, magnificent force that I have no desire to control. It is shadows, curled up and breathing underneath my heart. It is a taste of ash in the air and the musk of a nearby thrill brushing my throat. I close my eyes and I am infinitely black before an inferno in every shade of intensity unimaginable, standing with my arms wide, beckoning and accepting and reckon
camels strut like runway models
all pursed lips and heavy sway
slowly through the thick mauve evening
our camel cart makes its way
rattle cart makes my bones scatter
this must be how soil feels
I feel every curve and crevice
of the earth beneath the wheels
as we cross the crackled, parched earth
trees lean loving towards the sky
bright-eyed children from the roadside
call to us, "goodbye! goodbye!"
sunset on the salt lake-
twin orbs of fire
searing with a fierce calm
quiet as desire
we can feel the earth turn-
everything in view
sun slips from the bright lake
shimmered and withdrew
step around the fire
throw your sins, co
I take poems like lovers
to my bed
devour them devoutly,
hastened and voracious
touch their faces
embracing
each crevice of a word
each warm breath sound hot in my ears
and the scent of skin-page drifts
sweetly over lick-sin lips
of sinfully delicious script
tender with the taste of living.
The dry heat soaked up by the pavement scorches through the skin of the soles of my feet, making my nerves twitch. At the same time, under the sun's harsh eyes, a drip of sweat rolls slowly down the side of my neck. My whole body is painted with a second skin of sweat as the heat presses down on my eyes and makes the air that rushes to meet my lungs never satisfying. The humidity clings against my body like a stifling lover, hanging off my neck and disinclining me to the idea of motion. As the sweat escapes I feel the opening of all the pores of my skin, desperately seeking breathable air.
I am acutely and excruciatingly aware of my own deat
What To Do With Leaves by write-it-out, literature
Literature
What To Do With Leaves
She asked for the essence of a single leaf, but the boy could only identify the accident of living.
She wanted to be natural, like her body felt in the morning, in the evening.
The night smelled like liquor and the jacket of the boy, as the girl that was too imagined to function drifted through the cold wind like a lone leaf, edges crisping near the crackling wick of dawn.
The boy felt like shaving cream, and looked like he'd taken a moment to tie his shoes neatly. Forlorn in in the great gusts of wind, the boy's scarf flailed out to flash under street lamps. (Lamps that knew of such things as imagination.)
If only he had turne
You are not the eye-erasing beauty
of the sun splitting open the sea with morning,
but you are the green and purple glint
on a wave crest as sun ducks away into night.
You are not the electric-splash shock of
ice water in meltingpot summer,
but you could be the cool, smooth
surface of a palm.
You are not a fire, ravaging, devouring,
chewing and churning and spitting out black,
but you are a shawl, touching my shoulders tenderly.
You are not a symphony of drumroll clouds and thunder,
but you are the sound of rain.
You do not laugh like falling snowflakes.
Your words do not resonate like age-old wisdom stones.
You do not move
White Sheets and Sugar by write-it-out, literature
Literature
White Sheets and Sugar
"I wanted you to believe in the starch and the harsh linen and the fresh, crisp white sheets" I say softly, my eyes seeking yours pleadingly for a moment.
"I wanted us to slide into those sheets without pulling them loose, so that we would lay pressed tightly against the mattress, grounded firmly in one place with no danger of slipping away anywhere."
I press on, urgently, "I wanted us to be that clean- whiter than fresh bleach." Across the table from me, your eyes glitter black and tired. Your expression does not change.
Suddenly my words fall hushed, distant. "I wanted you to fall into a dream, a revery where I w
You were mine in the summer,
in those languid days
when the sun glinted knowingly
in the windows, beaming
and the rain pressed
its small hands against the pane
leaving droplets to glisten there.
You were mine in the summer,
as the cool air made us giddy
and our skin turned brown in the sunlight,
when everything was a reminder of how to feel
in the heat and the ocean air
and the bustling city of taxis and tourist traps,
each slight brush of the senses.
I was yours in the summer,
when freedom coursed through my veins like ice water
driving me to new heights of daring,
and the sweet taste of togetherness
heated my heart like
Welcome to my mal de vivre
the marvelous mouth of my miscontent.
Come. Sit with the paper dolls
in a room where the days hang
thick as curtains and hot breath
Sit. Find yourself
staring at a jaw bone,
wondering at its three dimensions
Wonder. Is anyone silent?
Wonder why you look at things that
no one else could love.
Welcome to the shadows,
to campfires and the colder side.
Listen. Everything sounds
like ceiling fans.
Look. There's nothing to hold to in
any of these faces.
Face yourself.
(idly,
painfully):
How many others suffer
this impatient, impossible wrong
that cradles your hips with its long fingers?
Well no
Between Mark Wartenberg and You
July 5, 2009 at 12:11am
you
Some days this flame inside me is enough to swallow me whole, and in its eagerness, devour my lampshade, lick paint off the walls, sear the mattress beneath me to a curling charred abyss. It is a burning, twisting, malignant, magnificent force that I have no desire to control. It is shadows, curled up and breathing underneath my heart. It is a taste of ash in the air and the musk of a nearby thrill brushing my throat. I close my eyes and I am infinitely black before an inferno in every shade of intensity unimaginable, standing with my arms wide, beckoning and accepting and reckon
camels strut like runway models
all pursed lips and heavy sway
slowly through the thick mauve evening
our camel cart makes its way
rattle cart makes my bones scatter
this must be how soil feels
I feel every curve and crevice
of the earth beneath the wheels
as we cross the crackled, parched earth
trees lean loving towards the sky
bright-eyed children from the roadside
call to us, "goodbye! goodbye!"
sunset on the salt lake-
twin orbs of fire
searing with a fierce calm
quiet as desire
we can feel the earth turn-
everything in view
sun slips from the bright lake
shimmered and withdrew
step around the fire
throw your sins, co
I take poems like lovers
to my bed
devour them devoutly,
hastened and voracious
touch their faces
embracing
each crevice of a word
each warm breath sound hot in my ears
and the scent of skin-page drifts
sweetly over lick-sin lips
of sinfully delicious script
tender with the taste of living.
The dry heat soaked up by the pavement scorches through the skin of the soles of my feet, making my nerves twitch. At the same time, under the sun's harsh eyes, a drip of sweat rolls slowly down the side of my neck. My whole body is painted with a second skin of sweat as the heat presses down on my eyes and makes the air that rushes to meet my lungs never satisfying. The humidity clings against my body like a stifling lover, hanging off my neck and disinclining me to the idea of motion. As the sweat escapes I feel the opening of all the pores of my skin, desperately seeking breathable air.
I am acutely and excruciatingly aware of my own deat
You are not the eye-erasing beauty
of the sun splitting open the sea with morning,
but you are the green and purple glint
on a wave crest as sun ducks away into night.
You are not the electric-splash shock of
ice water in meltingpot summer,
but you could be the cool, smooth
surface of a palm.
You are not a fire, ravaging, devouring,
chewing and churning and spitting out black,
but you are a shawl, touching my shoulders tenderly.
You are not a symphony of drumroll clouds and thunder,
but you are the sound of rain.
You do not laugh like falling snowflakes.
Your words do not resonate like age-old wisdom stones.
You do not move
You were mine in the summer,
in those languid days
when the sun glinted knowingly
in the windows, beaming
and the rain pressed
its small hands against the pane
leaving droplets to glisten there.
You were mine in the summer,
as the cool air made us giddy
and our skin turned brown in the sunlight,
when everything was a reminder of how to feel
in the heat and the ocean air
and the bustling city of taxis and tourist traps,
each slight brush of the senses.
I was yours in the summer,
when freedom coursed through my veins like ice water
driving me to new heights of daring,
and the sweet taste of togetherness
heated my heart like
Barefoot in the Apple Grove by write-it-out, literature
Literature
Barefoot in the Apple Grove
To be and not to be- there is no question:
both are ours, forever here to keep,
for ever since eluding that first sleep,
a thousand times anew we've met the sun
An hour has not passed, no nor a breath,
between now and the depth from whence we came,
each frozen moment fixed within a frame,
unshaken by the wild hands of death
And consciousness, as an electric spark,
moves through the moments like electric wire,
swimming through a sea of mind and mire
and matter- burns vermillion and goes dark.
Do you believe the apple grove is silent?
But hold your breath- the voices still ring clear,
the footprints of the ones that once danced he
Aziza was Indian but told everyone she was from Europe. She'd never been to India or Europe but that's just what she told people, even if they didn't ask. She would meet someone new and say, "Hello, I'm Aziza," holding out her hand, "I'm from Europe." If anyone asked where in Europe, she'd change the answer depending on who the new person knew. One group of people thought she was from England. Another thought Spain. A third, Greece. She was careful the people she met would never talk to someone in a different group, each belonging to specific social cliques. She was a very careful person. "Balancing lies is a careful process," she'd think to
I spent the darker days
of my youth
demanding
proof
or consequences
and I regretted
every stretched
and desperate
second
how the land
would cry
out
as if
hungry
for the weight
of heal-marks
wandering
waiting on
weak spots
to plant
its teeth
in
but the heart
moves you
toward
stationary
revelations are
sedentary
and reflective
as
memories
both defined
by the sensory
we may dream
involuntarily
but
r
o
o
t
s
are a conscious
decision
Ways to Call My Lover by LustingforLove, literature
Literature
Ways to Call My Lover
Sweetling,
speak to me with caramel lisps,
Coca-Cola lips.
Lovely,
stare into me with juniper pupils
under a villainous brow.
I have written you a symphony
with accidentals
with naturals
in the key of D minor.
It reminds me of you,
your ivory teeth
your sharp note tongue.
Darling,
romance me with pebble broken windows,
notes in the garden.
Dearheart,
serenade me with melancholy vows,
free style spoken words.
I have painted your portrait
with acrylics
with rainbow watercolors
in grayscale and sepia.
It blurs in my mind,
your mud puddle eyes,
your lopsided jaw.
Honey,
hold me with steel plated limbs,
seedling stem
i want to read your body
like neruda poem
written in braille,
my fingers searching
the pages of your skin,
gently brushing away
the hair that falls
like a silken bookmark
across your face.
i will work my way
down the page, hands
trembling with excitement,
anticipating which words
will follow.
fingers will linger
in some areas, reread,
so that on lonely nights
like this one I will
be able to recite
the subtle nuances of
your neck or the mystery
surrounding your navel.
I would try to interpret
the verse for others,
but there is no translation
for your lungs breathing
into the palm of my hand,
or your h
Curves
I know you want laced ribs,
rosemary hips,
elegant femininity
Hourglass outlines.
I know you're afraid
to look down, so look up.
My fingers are still holding on.
I will sell my words
if I have to make it happen
and when it does
we'll find you pretty clothes.
You are my woman
and I can see you.
I love you and I'm terrified.
I'm trembling.
His lips and his tongue-
and the smell of rancid himness quickening my pulse with disgust and lust, his viscera and his fingers and his dullness which he wears like a perfume, sliding and stroking and choking and punching and forgetting me.
I'm sweating blood, which dribbles and molests the floor before it gets sucked back into me. My sleeves dig into my wrists, chew through the bone, urge me to gush and gasp and chew and chew and inhale before exhaling a nonplussed singeing aroma that grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me and shakes me and tells me to fuck off- so I stay. and my heartbeat kills me, as his bland and vicious lips stagnate
Your flying fingers kiss the keys
the blues bleed from the brass,
eruption of the subtleties
in notes as clear as glass
As wild and churning as the seas
the night of music's birth,
the sound crawls on its hands and knees
and smells of clay and earth
Painting trails of color as
the notes pursue their prey,
the smoky-hot tendrils of jazz
delve deep my core of clay
And slowly as the tones surround
and make my sick soul moan,
my very breath becomes the sound
strung from the saxophone.
Snow turns the world to a black and white soundless filmstrip.
(The curls of your hair are dusted in white.)
The trees hang dark and delicate, decked in lace.
The hallways smell of cinnamon and pine. Outside, it smells like mountain.
Each step on the white ground makes a sound, an imprint on this alien new world.
Our voices are the only colors here
Glistening black train
rips across the old tracks
catches the air in your lungs-
your body ageless.
The smirk of a reporter's voice
telling your tale in snide official tones
the molten tears sear me to hear-
so impersonal in tragedy.
How do I heal this hurt,
this fresh open wound through which
cold air clutches my heart?
Happy birthday,
Happy birthday,
Happy birthday Jessica.
For your birthday I give you
this:
this is for every time you lay awake at night
for every time you watched a movie and fell a little bit in love,
the moments you felt your mortality press against you,
for the stories you half-wrote, the tickets stub
Sometimes when you read a poem, a particular line or phrase hits you in just the right way.You feel like you need to write it on your wall, or mail it to everyone you know. Someone once told me they intended to get a line in my poem as a tattoo!
For a while now, I've been gathering some of these soul-stone lines, from my favorite incredible dA artists, and from random works I've encountered.
Beneath each line is the link to the original deviations that contain them.
Get your tattoo needles ready, and feast your eyes and mind. You won't have any space left on you're body by the time this is over.
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