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Literature Text
dear moonfaced girl,
pig heart beating slow:
passion has never made the blood flow heavy
through your stagnant veins.
even the clean country air pollutes
your lungs
and tracing orion in the pinpricks up above on a clear night
won’t make your eyes look any prettier.
lies come easy on your tongue,
greed in your fingertips,
narcissism in every glance into the smudged silver
of a mirror;
you write poems
as though applying makeup--
everything in its place,
kohl thick,
mistakes purposeful and perfect,
all picked based on your mental snapshots
of the prettiest boys and girls.
you learned so well to show the world your beautiful portrayal
of someone else.
perhaps you will find yourself,
one day,
inkstained and feverish,
shocked with the rising of the sun,
words spilling onto the page with the truth
and veracity
that has always been missing.
perhaps you will surround yourself with ghost stories
and folklore and fairytales,
and find your heart waking up.
listen, now:
first it will match pace with the sea’s sighing waves,
then with the smack of running footsteps
on wet tarmac,
then with a bird’s wings
shuddering
as it first takes flight.
perhaps you will realize that the brightly painted bottles
in your makeup bag
can help you show the world who you really are;
perhaps your lungs will finally expand
like the sped-up stop motion of a flower unfurling,
opening its face to the day;
perhaps, like lyra reading the alethiometer,
you will learn again
that which you always thought you knew.
the frustration will fade, dear heart:
just wake up.
pig heart beating slow:
passion has never made the blood flow heavy
through your stagnant veins.
even the clean country air pollutes
your lungs
and tracing orion in the pinpricks up above on a clear night
won’t make your eyes look any prettier.
lies come easy on your tongue,
greed in your fingertips,
narcissism in every glance into the smudged silver
of a mirror;
you write poems
as though applying makeup--
everything in its place,
kohl thick,
mistakes purposeful and perfect,
all picked based on your mental snapshots
of the prettiest boys and girls.
you learned so well to show the world your beautiful portrayal
of someone else.
perhaps you will find yourself,
one day,
inkstained and feverish,
shocked with the rising of the sun,
words spilling onto the page with the truth
and veracity
that has always been missing.
perhaps you will surround yourself with ghost stories
and folklore and fairytales,
and find your heart waking up.
listen, now:
first it will match pace with the sea’s sighing waves,
then with the smack of running footsteps
on wet tarmac,
then with a bird’s wings
shuddering
as it first takes flight.
perhaps you will realize that the brightly painted bottles
in your makeup bag
can help you show the world who you really are;
perhaps your lungs will finally expand
like the sped-up stop motion of a flower unfurling,
opening its face to the day;
perhaps, like lyra reading the alethiometer,
you will learn again
that which you always thought you knew.
the frustration will fade, dear heart:
just wake up.
Literature
lacunae of longing, loftiness of words
inked and reaching, this is my remembrall flesh
and if we were to never speak again
you'll find the rest of my bones in the graveyard eaten by a dream
i hear knives in the wind and earth inside me
survival is a balancing act-
a selection of extrasensory impulses
a fracture in late august
a week of kisses
sunday skeletons
and i am crying out for time not yet lost
when stars collapse,
the sunshine shaking heart of the unive
Literature
conspire, respire
let me tie your hair in sinews
let me
wash it with matrix and cleanse
the pyruvates waiting to be
bound
to me, let me
string them together like
photosystems in the lamella
right across the street.
we're complimentary,
anti-parallel, anti-
social, anti-everything but
let me tie your hair in something bigger
than what we have; this
micro-world is no better
than the milli-
but at least in membrane-like
folds of a scrunchie
you'll have several (dead)
parts of you close
to the macro-world inside you.
yet
you are still larger
than the hundred-hair-you-lose-a-day
and nine-litres-of-water-bam-bam-gone
and half-a-million-gone-to-waste-
on-a-diagn
Literature
Entropy
i spin apart, a galaxy
ever expanding while
stardust confessions
trace icy paths down
my spine -- the ghost
of your fingertips
against my skin
lingers
even after your memory
fades
Suggested Collections
i've been gone too long and it makes me sad.
title and second to last stanza are of course references to the His Dark Materials trilogy by Philip Pullman
comments are always loved
title and second to last stanza are of course references to the His Dark Materials trilogy by Philip Pullman
comments are always loved
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Comments9
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this is so beautiful & His Dark Materials oh. I love this.