BullyHear me perform it on youtube.
We are not more
than each other but
virginity is a childhood disease;
because my friend tells me
I won't find a way to keep it.
So I do keep it.
You are not more
than me, yet
I bully you:
'sex is an adolescent dream.'
because your friends tell you
that you will hold someone
close enough to have it.
So you hold someone closer.
And it doesn't bother me
that I twitch from the grief,
wince from my gut and ground
my teeth for the truth;
I do those things because
this thought makes sense to me:
I think I'm more
AsphodelA beckoning:Asphodel2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
watercolour sky shrinking,
too late, teeth fall; pearls
from a broken string.
Blink and the moon ignites—
but the sheets are still
A Short Love StoryI counted your teethA Short Love Story2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
when you died,
all twenty-eight of them,
because it gave me more time
than counting your toes
and fingers (and thumbs),
or just looking at your face
and telling the coroner:
he's the one.
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,He doesn't write poetry anymore.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.
The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.
But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white and draymen carting the dead to saltwater lakes,
elegiac undertones that haunt historians and forlorn painters.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore –
except when he does.
Prelude Nocturne;Prelude2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I conjure the moon
as dusk crests,
a wave across the sky
I am lovely and lonely in
the night, shadow-
shackled to the mountainside
and the moths
unfurl their hamsa-wings as
mama calls me in.
1,001 NightsIn a land of1,001 Nights2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
dreams and dust:
the curve of
a half-hazed sun,
Touch Is PoetryToday, you recite Frost.Touch Is Poetry1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
I've always loved being read to,
But for some reason,
This morning I can scarcely
Absorb your flowing words,
Which instead trickle through my fingers
As their tips register
The vibrations of your voice
At the place where
Your chest and shoulder intersect,
Then trail down your bicep
To the crook of your elbow,
Then turn down the path
Of your forearm,
Then happen, at last,
Upon your precious left hand,
Which brackets the dusty anthology.
I hope you know I touch you
Because I adore you,
Not just because I can't see you.
ZemiThings having to be returned to their transparency:Zemi3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
/ green mist-earth / knit
atmosphere / fathomless
blue-lavender / lights
spun out from light
are recalcitrance / and you
& - a fingernail of summer
- a melting of rain
- a crown of flowers
- a priest of sunsets
(beautiful? I love you, because. Zemi.
Zemi. are you beautiful because I love
you? Zemi? )
I imagine this is what it's like to breathe sea foam
over the Cliffs of Moher: hydration. absolution.
To Rilke, it's a melody that floods over us
when we have forgotten how to listen for it.
I never could forget this: for how could I know
my hand as both well and chasm? and how could I know
time, a windstruck dimension, standing in her white street?
We go on morning walks and Zemi
laughs at everything I say.
To LondonGypsy hopefuls once told me,To London3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
there are flights leaving for
at any given instant
Upon sizing up our town with
did you realise how little
our frustrations were?
I spoke about this ineffable feeling
of stepping out of one tub
and into new water.
The hotel was done up nicely,
chandeliers and polished English accents.
Labels aside they still mixed
milk into their coffee
and had toast with jam and butter.
I was living under the impression
that most of the Internet
came from my same slice of city pie,
conveniently forgetting about
the undersea cables.
I loathed the lack of vernacular
sentence styles and words.
She saw things through different eyes
and I understood her.
When I found out she was a writer
halfway across the globe
I was selfish
and I loved the world a little less.
It was different
but it was still water.
the theatreit is a Tuesday afternoonthe theatre2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and I observe
the proscenium arch
of your spine.
I am separated from you
by several degrees,
a world and a half,
the ornate, sweeping divide
between watcher and watched
(and you've never cared
to break the fourth wall)
the beauty's in the leavingRead aloud here.the beauty's in the leaving2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
sweetheart, let's head out. let's
drink up the desert asphalt and that last bottle
of johnny walker blue--
one last toast to the copper sunsets,
to the good earth. a pair of
tailgate stargazers, you and i:
roaming curves across the glove compartment map, until
every foldline is worn flannel-soft
and it'd rather stay open
let's forget route sixty-six. let's forget
and pick up terra cotta dust--
breathe in the mojave. let's pretend
that the world's already ended
and it's just us.
let's leave the door unlocked
waking upand imagine my surprisewaking up2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
when my insides bloomed
into so many dandelions,
and in a single breath
philosophy has lost its appealYour absence isn't the elephant in the room;philosophy has lost its appeal2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It’s the invisible parasites lounging in the floorboards
Just writhing for a taste of lonely flesh.
My repaired left half is gone;
Without you, I’m faulty once more:
The half-blind broken wind-up doll is here again.
There aren't words to describe the emptiness:
just return soon.
forest firesmy signature scrawled across allforest fires2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of your sentences like a stain of apologies:
i'm sorry for anchoring you to my hip
like a one-sided promise, like a flood of insincerity.
i'm sorry for collecting you like a well of wishes,
for whispering you into every crack in these walls.
i do not have the depth to tether our limbs
with the tautness of our smiles, but i will
balance you on the edges of my knees until
you slip away.
i have been kneeling with my arms outstretched
but the divinity of your touch
never graced my expectant stance.
our bones built forest fires together,
but it was always my tears putting them out.
alannahlilting clouds in your glass of cabernetalannah4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
are imagined weather conversations
with people you used to know,
used to know pretty well and
whether you should have left
the way that you did
all carpet bags and old clothes
the fog funneled through
holes in the train windows like
burned down cigarettes
you light your own and think
remembering is muscle
stretched taut over bone
Clichedoes your poetry consist ofCliche2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
feelings nestled in ribcages
silent cries inside of a marrow
and the dull thunk of your heart
against my barely beating bones?
or is your poetry nestled in galaxies
shooting across well-kept fingertips
like comets lighting a dull sky
stardust of my hip bone wishes
literature universe coming to an end?
can your poetry play imagination
like a clever twist in a dream
where you kiss my shadows away
and teach me how to caress you
with love that burns passion away?
are you smitten enough to
run away with me
or are you yet to be blanketed
by these heavy arms of mine?
do my words weigh you down?
i havent met one so easily drowned
by the vast sea of my sunkissed letters
but as your velvet lips whispered,
always is there a first.
SehnsuchtOctober again;Sehnsucht3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and the curtains billow
with broken glass echoes and
Mendelssohn's bride waltzing
to better times
She becomes the rain,
and breaks her own heart as the sound
right through us.
Crossing ArielYour wedding;Crossing Ariel3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you spoke your way toward it
one prospect at a time;
having not been
the cripple or whore,
you settled for
singularity, no future or past,
just announcement and umbra, joy in shade,
soft smiting breath.
How though did you put your children away?
squinting toward dawn.
If your days had been counted
perhaps you would have gone off
fatter, sated as a rook scavenging
in the quiet
instead of blindly staring out bread crumbs
like a gassed canary.
The shine of your boy's hungry mouth
did not dissuade your long whim;
to any call of loneliness
the answer was a towel,
clean and wet
and a ration of cold milk.
Did any irony strike you
like a bell hammer?
Aimlessly you once doodled
no small feet wiggling
toe-ward to fill them.
Gentle prophecy of
immortal effigy for the beauty of drowning.
The flaxen-haired siren
counting out pins from her hair,
swallowing them slowly to armor her heart,
a myth of eaters
and sadness consumed
MoonlessThe moonless eveningMoonless3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
turns its back against the sky
and leaves it empty.
Perhaps the morning
will come back with its hands full,
holding up the sun.
CopenhagenLet’s meet again in an alternate universeCopenhagen2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
where your eyes are brown and I dyed my hair black
because I hated being a natural blue.
I’ll teach you to play guitar
and you’ll show me how to fly,
scholars caught in an intellectual love affair,
a tandem bike going nowhere.
I’ll know you by the gentleness
of your fingertips and you’ll need
no identifier but the slant of my handwriting,
because, world to world, some things don’t change.
ExhaustionExhaustionExhaustion3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I wake, swollen with noon heat.
Half dressed, I stumble,
elbows and toes catching
on the clawed feet of chairs,
the blunt holes of open cupboards.
I sometimes forget my name.
In the kitchen, I pepper the rice
instead of salt. Black flecks surface
in the boiling water,
sea turtles migrating.
If I knew where you went,
I would follow. But all you left behind
was an old sweater, an empty notebook,
complete and infinite
as the space around a closed fist.