SolsticeOnce upon a time, when you were still sunlighthouses and shimmering existence wherever you were needed most, you found him. He was November, shaky on his first last legs, and you saw through the mind-twistings he feigned to the mind-twistings that were really there, knotted up in his dreams.Solstice3 years ago in Scraps More Like This
You were still birdsong then, and thunderstorms, and your bodyheat melted the frost claws that held him tight. You held onto him as his November deepened. When he howled, you howled with him, and the wind played with your voices and pressed the softness of your lungs against your cageribsand then against each other's.
November became solstice, and you felt him shiver through that long night and didn't mind the coldbitten nails that grazed your skin. He slept when the moon drowned below the treeline, but the iceflakes began to drift in like small animals seeking the pulsing riverheat of your blood, and chilling you. He lay there, vulnerable as his world turned slowly towards the light, and you
harmonizei'm built on broken bones and metronomesharmonize2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
her alto trills, his hollow tones
a second verse she'll never know
so sweet and sweet and down we go
the cords stretch and scratch but never match
the off beat tears he'll surely catch
the droplets lead a song of their own
recorded on heartstrings, a song i know
his words they ring and the hurt they bring
it's been so long but i choose to sing
and maybe he'll hear the music we make
( it's been so long but i choose to break. )
4. The Sports FanWhen the sports fan comes4. The Sports Fan2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
he will bring chips and beer and good moods
then he will then start his cheer
for someone or something
and Denmark will win
and Denmark will lose
and all the players they suck
and everyone sucks
and then he will go home.
- from the highlight of his week
if you walk by his house
you can hear him cheer on
and he'll cheer and he'll cheer
he will do so for years
and then he will die
and when the sports fan dies
like the video gamer
and the masturbator
and the sleeper
and the lazy
no one will mourn him
least of all himself.
Butterfly Remains.I crushed butterfly wings in my hand and watched as they turned to dust.Butterfly Remains.4 years ago in Scraps More Like This
It reminded me of how I feel about all hope and trust.
The wind caught it and blew the particles away, far out of my reach,
it is similar to how far off my current dreams will always be.
Standing there, watching it float through the wind.
Hopeless. Helpless. Just like I've always been.
Slowly walking away, leaving behind the remainder of the butterfly's corpse.
Loosening my grip on it, and having gravity take it's course.
Just like I do with everything.
retrogradein october we harvest but this is a poem and I am a mailbox and the type of stuttering half-winter in my city.retrograde1 year ago in Scraps More Like This
sometimes i shout the oklahoma radio rust, sometimes invent a dixie-cup field of red space as an argument for displacement v. disappearance- and when i'm lonely your district is peopled and settled by the babbled rivers in the architecture blueglow in writhing continents of jellyfish [which, as metaphors, predate political affiliation and the quaking earth]
And then all oak amplifiers in the mountain suicide, then all photorealized rivers jaundiced paleyellow from a draining sun.
I went out and came home to a fire on the street
I saw a car and a man suspended over the shoulder of the freeway, both motionless
I believe mars was in retrograde as I fucked a girl near a forest.
We harvested the crop, fucked, and then sat apart and alone in the dark,
because this is a poem.
The WeekendI show up unannounced, like clockwork, and when you let me in, the act of opening the door flows smoothly into the act of pulling me against you. This is our weekend. We won't leave this room for another forty-eight hours.The Weekend3 years ago in Scraps More Like This
You pull me over to the couch and ask about my week, and we trade stories of minor frustrations and negligible disappointments. The sun sets in a glory of flame, and our weekend officially begins.
Usually these things are unplannedjust a shapeless succession of quiet momentsbut you've planned something this time. You have a horror movie. Popcorn for you. Crunchy fruit-shaped candy for me. "You know me too well."
"Of course I do." The DVD player humsthe soundtrack to the next two hours or so of the senseless darkness and gore that's become our guilty pleasure. We haven't seen this one before. I jump with every sudden image. You don't. You just sort of absorb it, and that seems fearless to other people, but I know better. It'll haunt your nightmares f
LightlessI have held the stars betweenLightless3 years ago in Scraps More Like This
my sun-slicked palms; run my fingers
through their silver hair;
traced every corner of their mouths
and eyes and dim silhouettes
pressed into the shadowed sky.
I have cradled them tightly against my chest and watched
as age crept upon them in cold dreams, sinking
past layers of wind-scraped skin and sleep.
One by one
their bodies grew white and barren. They shivered weakly
beneath my hand.
When night came
I would sing to them, passing
whispers of distant constellations
through their ears
and hoping they would remember
what it was like to be illuminated.
I told them of a universe
filled with stars that shed endless light.
Sometimes it was enough, but more often
they choked in the face of the memories, turning away
from their siblings' pale cinders.
The sky watched us
and looked on, unblinking.
Pollock1Pollock3 years ago in Scraps More Like This
Pollock, a frontiersman, a desperado.
all that he was, all that he had struggled against becoming,
destroyed in a moment of self-mutilation.
His future ended on an empty road.
He crashed through the closed gates of his anguish
into the void of oblivion.
he left the road permanently, written off,
along with the remains of the vehicle he drove and the corpse
The Forums, ala HaikuA Haiku, once a day, for the month of March, about each forumer you say? IT CANNOT BE! ...Or, perhaps it can be. Onwards, then!The Forums, ala Haiku7 years ago in Scraps More Like This
Your name I can't say,
But I know, All is not well,
Not in Jockey Town.
Stop laughing at me,
No seriously stop it,
Never click his links,
Wait what are you doing? No!
Gah, it's furry tits.
Such an odd fellow,
Yet no one visits your page,
To you, Manson fan.
Evil twin I hear,
Future crazy cat lady,
Captain oh Captain,
Though not in charge of the Rum,
Dear senior member,
Your name is irrelevant,
Come back to us soon
We want you mean, but-
You told me it's a typo.
Secretly not mad?
You have strange wishes,
There's something green about you,
Don't you kick that pup.
Time zones against you,
Yet I still adore your hair,
You silly clock man.
Oh I still hate you,
Putting old avatar back,
You Kitten Grandpa.
Going straight for Morrison?
Couldn't blame you.
Wind-Whipped SoulsYour empty blue green eyes,Wind-Whipped Souls3 years ago in Scraps More Like This
The locks to your mind,
Look right through me,
They're open; but for some reason, I can't find the strength to look inside.
You close your cold hands around a cup of
Bitter, convenient store coffee.
Sitting in the cloth covered, beat up passenger seat,
Staring through the cracked window, all I've ever known.
How am I supposed to help you here?
I'd wipe the blood from your paperthin skin,
But that's a solution you hate. It never comes to that,
And I wouldn't have the tools to do it anyways.
I'd pry the murder away from your mind, but it's hidden,
Locked away, for another confession.
Drive down the road, speeds reaching much faster than
The back-road speed-limit: 35.
Trees whipping past, wind in your mind, blowing your secrets
All over the window.
They're leaving you, and I finally know why
Wishing WellStanding in front of a small wishing well,Wishing Well4 years ago in Scraps More Like This
Wondering if everything's just a dream,
Feeling like a coin as it fell and fell,
Wishing things weren't dark like they always seem,
Don't think suicide is your alibi,
Because soon all this pain will go away,
So don't let the memories pass you by,
And soon enough you will see the bright day,
I'll be here to catch you before you fall,
Fighting for the day when you see the light,
Because you know one day you will win it all,
Just believe in yourself and start your life,
Smiling in front of a small wishing well,
Staring past your coin as it fell and fell.
CaffaI cry from keyholes worn into my glandsCaffa4 years ago in Scraps More Like This
and ulcerated joints. My friends
load me into a sling to give me
to the enemy. A snap, shuddering, rounded full stop.
Riding over the walls, I am a limp horseman
straddling my own waist.
wake me, i'm ready.D,wake me, i'm ready.3 years ago in Scraps More Like This
You would always sing like a broken record
about a little boy that has no home,
but I never knew you were secretly hiding yourself
because you believed your emotions were like
an emotional hurricane.
You were convinced that you lost your mind
since you repeatedly pretended you were dancing dead,
and your pulse would always compete with your heart
whenever you felt like breaking
to see who could break you first,
but your ribs would always crack
whenever you thought about love
because you never believed in yourself.
(''This is my last time,
there is no time for goodbye.'')
You would always pretend that you were a ghost
because you never felt alive,
but you always convinced yourself
that you would change the world
so people no longer had to be broken.
(There was never a single thing about you
that I do not miss,
it's like you're the new trend.)
bill of goodsit still didn't feel even,bill of goods6 years ago in Scraps More Like This
nor was it yet a prolonged moment
that I would grin off like you
said. But I nod
still that you were right
(I was a magpie once;
decorating my home with other people
's clothes and photographs,
borrowing the glimmers of their past
to raise a cuckoo as my own)
It is rare that your look isn't
We don't talk we don't talk we don't walk
past that flimsy bird bath because we know
there's a mauled blackbird slightly to the left
so instead we play chess
(I was a writer once;
bringing spills to those who could
not quite grasp how wonderful
plain mundane restrained
sounds to a fan
I could deliver lip service all day
just to push back
your shoulders and raise
your head. I'm good
happiness to generate
(I was a friend once;
tipping my head to one side
and patting your arm
during a significant pause.
Admit genuity --
you felt it )
I have walked streets
turning heads to address my boho
attire and indian plats --
far too young
whorei'm a whore.whore4 years ago in Scraps More Like This
not like i get paid for what i do or anything, i'm not a prostitute. just it doesn't take too much to get me to let you cop a feel. promiscuous, if you would.
i like feeling like i'm loved. i get that being used for my body doesn't mean love, but making someone feel good makes me feel good, and it's a little like love in that way.
i'm something of a self-effacing monstrosity. i'm red in the face and so are you as you resurface from between my legs.
i'm a whore.
slut of the earth. that's what i feel like when we come out of the woods. you're so drunk you probably don't know what's happened, and you'd be damned if you weren't having a great time right now, wavering all over the cool grass under the night sky, laughing jovially at nothing but the sounds of crickets' legs locking together like violin strings.
i'm a whore.
it's less being a slut, more crying for help. less throwing orgies to get off, m
something you always needed.I feel like I lose myselfsomething you always needed.3 years ago in Scraps More Like This
as I lose your heartbeat in the wind
because we've all been broken for too long.
You've been holding on to thin air
as your hands turn into ice
because you'll never learn how to love again.
I felt beautiful when I was starving
because I felt like I would be closer to you
since all I ever wanted was your heart,
but your heart was too fragile to ever touch.
You always counted down to five
and held a shotgun in your hand
because you felt like you were talking to the dead
whenever you closed your eyes,
but you were only lying to your heart.
(You always enjoyed writing false messages on my skin
that were like broken messages
you always forgot to say out loud
just so you could feel
as you put your lips on mine
because you said that my lips were always your home.
We would always be the best at losing ourselves
since we always lost ourselves in the dark.)
You never believed in yourself
because you felt like you were nothing,
but you were always everything.<
never ending onion ridethere have been diseases like this before.never ending onion ride3 years ago in Scraps More Like This
epidemics of buildings growing deaf,
stair-cases full of dead musicians
asking for a bus schedule and smokes.
someone has butterflied the mountain, angered god,
rebuilt the virgin with excited gas. the girl i'm with
is writing eulogies for all the bastard love children
they sent no one to explain that here
all the owls are stone. we walk and
a fence rises and blooms.
nothing is born from inside that dust.
nothing is created or destroyed.
but sometimes there are lights,
a traffic in anecdotes about
the heaviness of people's hands.