Ton Roi Ta ReineTon Roi Ta Reine in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
Tout ce que j'aime se coupe de haine
Je suis un paradoxe pour moi même
Autant je souffre autant je t'aime
Je suis ton Roi je suis ta Reine
Dame de Pique et Roi de Coeur
Je suis l'épouvantail du château
Qui se torture sans rancoeur
Et fait tomber les cartes pataud
Je suis ton reflet dans la nuit
Celui dont tu ne sais pas
Mais qui pourtant est là
Toujours avec toi mon ami
Je suis ta joie ma Reine
Je suis ta peine mon Roi
Je suis moi et aussi toi
Je suis une vieille rengaine
Tant je t'aime j'en viens à te haïr
Te maudire sans jamais te trahir
Reflet croupi les cartes tombent
Je m'écroule dans mon ombre
Taches de sang sur le Roi
Je suis les deux faces de la carte
Taches de sang sur la Dame
Je suis ton Roi je suis ta Reine.
SilenceSilence assourdissantSilence in Free Verse More Like This
Plus de canons ni de cors,
Seulement le bruit des morts.
C'est le silence de ceux
Qui sont tombés au feu,
C'est là l'écho des armes,
Des bombes et des larmes.
Pleurs des agonisants,
Allongés dans leur sang;
Tous les battements des curs
S'arrêteront dans une heure,
Et plus jamais ils n'entendront
Le long chant des clairons.
Qu'importe! Défaite ou victoire,
Il survit le désespoir.
Et restent les soupirs
Qui remplacent tous les rires,
De tristesse et de peur.
Sans une ombre ni un bruit
La mort a pris la vie.
Pourquoi donc espérer
Le silence qui vient après,
Nous y gagneront tant
Dans le silence d'avant.
Encore un jour qui meurtEncore un jour qui meurt in Open More Like This
Encore un jour se finit
Encore un jour qui meurt
Un de ceux qui font ma vie
Encore un jour vivant de pleurs
Une longue journée passée
A toujours plus désespérer
De ne pouvoir faire qu'espérer
Quand plus rien n'a de sens
Et que le monde est violence
Quand la mort est bienveillante
Et quelle semble évidente
Encore un jour où elle est là
Marchant gaiement avec la joie
Elle semble si proche et si belle
Que je rêve de ses longues ailes
Cette sensation de vivre
Uniquement pour mourir
Je ne pourrai enfin respirer
Que quand je la verrai voler
Ensemble nous partirons
De ce grand monde agonisant
Et je n'entendrai plus le son
Des balles et des mourants
Encore un jour qui fait ma peine
Un de ceux qui forgent la haine
Contre cette espèce humaine
Un de ces jours par centaines
Encore un jour qui fuit
Et il emmène avec lui
Une partie de ma vie
Guerre et HommeGuerre et Homme in Free Verse More Like This
Elle tient dans sa main
Un petit sablier
Dedans s'écoulent les grains
Grande ombre sans visage
Qui regarde le ciel
En pensant aux carnages
Se lève brusquement
Sa grande faux brillante
Les orbites feu-dansant
Envoie chez les ancêtres
Dans nos folies guerrières
Les âmes de tous les êtres
Silence sur les tombes
Linceul sur le monde...
Et l'Homme qui l'accuse à tort
Disant : Tueuse sans remord
Devrait se regarder d'abord
Car c'est lui qui appelle sa mort
In the name ofIn the name of in Free Verse More Like This
In the name of his dreams,
So many had lost theirs.
In the name of his love,
So many had lost theirs.
In the name of his life,
So many had lost theirs.
Killed for being born,
Burned for being alive,
Buried for being in Earth,
Just because he decided.
One human, in his own insanity,
Killed many and many.
And the six billion in humanity
Will always regret this folly.
And we don't have to forget,
We must remember for ever
This period of terror,
In the name of his victims.
Aujourd'hui j'ai vuAujourd'hui j'ai vu in Free Verse More Like This
Aujourd'hui j'ai vu
J'ai vu des enfants nus
Courir seuls dans la rue
Et leurs parents qu'on tue
J'ai vu aussi un homme
Remporter une grosse somme
Pour avoir seulement dit
Tout un tas de conneries
J'ai vu dans les yeux noirs
D'une femme son désespoir
Sa fille était au lycée
Quand celui-ci s'est effondré
J'ai vu plusieurs personnes
Chanter sans être bonnes
Sous une douche dorée
De pièces et de billets
J'ai vu cet homme pleurer
Tout espoir l'a quitté
Il ne peut se nourrir
Et sait qu'il va mourir
J'ai vu qu'au supermarché
Réduction sur les denrées
Et pour une pile achetée
Trois emballages papier
Et j'ai vu sur ma télé
Ce fossé, la réalité
Toute l'Afrique est mourante
Pendant que l'Europe chante
Cet homme là est mourant
Qu'importe, celui-ci est gagnant
Et passons maintenant
Aux émissions pour enfants.
Ode aux poetesPour que la liberté soit reineOde aux poetes in Free Verse More Like This
On a souffert toutes peines
Arrêtés, tués, enterrés
Au nom de la société
Et pensés écrasées
C'était là l'âge noir
De notre triste histoire
Mais tout ceci est révolu
Ces sacrifices ne sont plus
Du moins cela devrait
Car on nous dit civilisés
Et pourtant ce matin
Emprisonné par sa plume
Un poète de bien
Tout rempli d'amertume
Le monde devient fou
Et dans sa chute entraine tout
Surtout notre beauté
Celle tout au fond de nous
Celle qui fait notre fierté
Celle qu'on veut nous enlever
Notre art d'imaginer
Si on nous a donné
Le pouvoir de penser
Si nous avons gagné
Le pouvoir de parler
C'est pouvoir s'exprimer
Non pas pour être brimés
C'est pour être écoutés
Et pas emprisonnés
Le soleil et la lune
Se rencontrent éternellement
Assis seul sur une dune
J'écris contre le vent
PrologueChacun de ses pas soulevait un petit nuage de cendre. Il marchait sur l'éternel tapis gris, que même le vent ne pouvait enlever. Autour de lui, des ruines. Des carcasses de voitures. Des arbres morts. Des squelettes. L'homme avançait dans la désolation, contournant parfois un vestige du passé rouillé ou bien en lambeaux. Dans ses bras, un paquet de chiffons sales, qu'il tenait fermement.Prologue in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
Au loin, une ville, noire et morte. Tranchant avec l'horizon rouge.
Chacun de ses pas semblait un calvaire. Pourtant, il continuait, au milieu du désert cendré, parsemé d'oasis brûlées. Un homme en enfer.
Le vent souleva une volute de cendre, qui l'obligea à mettre une main devant son visage, tout en tenant les chiffons contre lui de l'autre. Cachant son menton, une barbe, grisée par la poussière.
Il s'arrêta, et s'assit sur ce qui avait été une voiture. Rouge, à en croire ce qui restait de peinture sur le capot.
Sur l'autre rive... La vie dans toute sa splendeurSur l'autre rive... in Free Verse More Like This
Et la mort dans toute son horreur
Ne pourraient arrêter mon cur
Je suis l'éperdu voyageur
Qui répète les mêmes erreurs
Mais je connais le fond de tes yeux
Pour y avoir tant perdu pied
Et lorsque qu'ils deviennent malheureux
Je ne vis plus que pour les raviver
Mon cur se brise en deux
Quand je te dis adieu
Trois, quatre, myriades de larmes
Mais lorsque du fond de mon âme
J'entends cette voix qui m'appelle
Tout mon corps, soudain se rappelle
Que je t'aime, que tu es pour moi
Tout ce qui fait ma peine, ma joie
of storms and skysee my hair dance wild as wind-strings jerk it about//hear the ocean-wind heave itself against us all- crashing into our eyes and mouth//feel the winter-wind brush our skins in summer//then inhale the heaviness of air and sink through the dirt- because darling, you dont deserve gods beautiful violence.of storms and sky in Other More Like This
(it drags the tree by its leaves saying kiss your trunk, kiss it and it does; releasing with a snap. the other trees flitter-flutter violently, crying within the cacophony of rain on concrete. white stars fall where light exists, and only sound where it disappears. the sky -the colour of sunburnt skin- watches it all with hunger. and then a moment we are swallowed. gumtrees, rain, earth; we are all night sky now. but our eyes open and the rain is no more, dew on grass. and the wind is no more, only breath.)
leavemedon'tleaveme.you make me sick. you make my stomach fold in on itself and press out against the lining of my flesh. you put lumps in my throat and you tie strings to my tear glands and tug until the world is just a panoply of blurred lines, hazy colour and bokeh.leavemedon'tleaveme. in Biography & Memoir More Like This
you made me do this. you put the knife in my fingers and you told me to tear, you said you would care if i hurt myself like this. you said youd care if i opened my flesh up for you like a gift of blood and flesh and tissue. but you never really did.
i like being small, i like being the blue eyed girl sitting amidst background noise, rubber band arms holding the necks of her legs together. i like being the blue eyed girl with hands holding her from spilling in a mess at everyones toes. i like it when theyre your hands.
i try to define you with mental disorders. i say you have schizophrenia and pretend its a valid excuse. im in love with one of your personalities, but the other doesnt even notice
colour blind.She saw him at the park once. He was the colour of dirt; with bird eyes and white, mapped palms. Her little forehead lined as she felt the bile force its way up until her saliva was acid. She counted her toes and bit the inside of her cheek, should she run? Are they fast runners? She figured this one must be if he kept himself out of jail. The dark man flashed a mouthful of pebbles and held out his hand- which would have swallowed hers.colour blind. in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
'Don't touch me.'
Her hands were all knuckles and her baby eyes tore into his. He faltered and stepped away, a half mouthed sorry. He looked upset, a grin spread like fire between her dimples.
Suddenly she imagined force-feeding him barbed wire and then tearing it back out- the way a clown pulls coloured cloth from his sleeve. She imagined tying the left of his limbs to a heavy tree trunk and the right to a truck. Dragging and pulling until his joints sang high with dislocation and his arms snapped like twigs. The way she likes the crackle of dea
you can't feel through fabrictonight the rain becomes the earthyou can't feel through fabric in Other More Like This
falling from hidden spaces in the sky and swollen clouds
i hear it make mud of dirt, and lovers of friends
and ask, quiet, where are you going but down?
im not all there in the head
youre not all there in the head, my mother says
im not all there in the head i repeat
sometimes im there in my toes and fingers and heart as well
and now - in this downpour moment- i lie on the street
so warm that i think well thats where loves gotten to
but where is your shirt n? oh someplace else
and is that a light flickering in the house across the road? hide!
i rush in soaken with rain i watched fall (like stars)
am i poetic enough yet, yet?
leaving rain-prints on the carpet but mother wont mind
mind you she never minds anything if its mine
but then it stops a quick shut-eye stop
(i wonder) is it dew now that it sits like jewels upon the grass?
the wind is lovely in my ear, voice like rushing water
my mouth is filling with sandmy brother used to tell me to hold my breath until i could hear the ocean in my head. and i did, it was a soft roar of sky fighting sea. eventually when my eyes rolled back like waves, he would make me breathe so i didn't drown.my mouth is filling with sand in Short Stories More Like This
he was always there to tell me to breathe out but now he is gone and i am forgetting how to.
we were very young when our father died (fell from a cliff photographing the moon) and our mother started dating the milkman. he was gangly man with white hair but otherwise very handsome. we didn't mind him at all. he made our mother smile and brought warm milk every night. but we missed our father and his stories about stars and planets.
one night we tried in vain to bring our father back to life in this man, he lay on our bed and we begged a story. but rather than talk about the grandeur of the milkyway he told us the percentages (down to 7 figures) of the essential vitamins in milk. we yawned and slept as he watched on proudly, thinking he had inspired delighting dr
pretty boys break hearts.sometimes I think Im just a mess of badly drawn lines. Im just scrawled veins beneath paper rough skin, I wear poorly sketched scars on my thighs [skin deep red pen lines] and even my smile is lop-sided- but he never seemed to notice.pretty boys break hearts. in Teen More Like This
my skin [spread like thick icing over my skeleton] is a monotonous pattern of pores, a stretch of the world the sun never kissed. I cant see the beauty in multitudes of freckles and chipped fingernails- but he does.
why do you love me?
you make me happy.
I never could figure out just how. was it my illegible love notes, or the tiny hearts I drew into his bare back with my fingertips? was it the filth on my knees or the way I named every bowing flower in my garden? maybe it was the way I sewed the stars to the navy sky and told him in a little, little voice-that I loved him.
either way he made my heart skip beats and bumps and bangs and he made me feel beautiful, a little
asthmashe smokes marlboro cigarettes with the bedroom door locked. i taste it on her breath, lips and skin everyday after school. her bed is a mattress on the floor. sometimes we make love on it and i wonder if she'd rather have her mouth around a cigarette than me right then. she has asthma too.asthma in Short Stories More Like This
she is my second cousin. i didn't know this until two years after we began fucking and three years after i fell for her. i don't think it really matters. emily says if i ever made her pregnant she'd make me punch her in the stomach, heavy and hard. but i never would you know, i love her.
the smoking is killing her. i hid the cigarettes beneath the sink, but she just bought new ones and hid them better. she had her head down in the pillow, coughing, coughing until she coughed up sticky blood. i cried for her and she told me to stop being such a pussy. i told her i loved her and she drew another cigarette. kissing it ways she'd never kiss me.
some nights i sleep over hers. her father doesn't mind, he
exhalation.Sixteen. Sixteen years since she was the size of a deflated lung beneath her mothers ribcage- now she has her own mass beneath her ribcage. Thumping sometimes to the outside, treating the skin of Laylla's stomach like a door. It will open in 3 months, it will be sliced open because her flesh is meat and they'll bring Sophie to air and she'll swallow until all she tastes is that dull white of the hospital. And then she'll cry and the music will drone in Laylla's ears until she tastes vomit and she is numb in all the aching places.exhalation. in Short Stories More Like This
She doesn't know the father. She thinks Michael but she tells herself it is Louis. She repeats his name over and over in her head until it simply can't be anyone else's. But baby Sophie will have Michael's milk skin and his amber eyes and then she'll feel her heart sink all over again.
They fucked in a Garden. Wire fencing ripped open her calve like it was a gift and left a scar souvenir. He lifted her dress -sun yellow- and brought her underwear to meet her k
before, beforei am only just thirteen. he is sixteen. i am in love/lust/crush.before, before in Biography & Memoir More Like This
my best friends big brother, or friends ex boyfriend, is tall. once or twice i imagined kissing him. but he never would. he is friends with the boy who is sixteen. and besides he is my best friends big brother or my friend's ex boyfriend. and i am not a bad person.
i am tall too, you know. i am stretched skyward but there was no more to stretch, just bone. so i am not really that tall at all. but i pretend i am. how tall are you? oh above average, you know, pretty tall.
the brother says want to come and see j? and my heart leaps and i sing yes but he only hears a nod and there's no time to change. my chest is flat and my shirt doesn't cover my belly button but i don't really mind, you know, it's brown and flat like stretches of australia my father used to talk about. that's me; land.
the air is the kind of cool it only ever is at nighttime. not winter, no that's a different kind. you can tell by the night-y smell and the
Waking into a deeper sleepI remember your eyes, half-closed and hesitatingWaking into a deeper sleep in Free Verse More Like This
so as not to swallow the salt of words
and how you mothered every ounce of death
throbbing in our throats when the evening came
drumming its hooves at the doorstep;
I remember the fiery sway
of smoke-curtains and swollen syllables
scraping our retinas like carefully broken glass,
the nausea of doubt like rusty wounds
and my arms stretched across the Atlantic
as if to part the waves into fractions
of fractions of fractions just to get
a different perspective of things.
There was always something
deeply nocturnal about your gaze,
how it waited in sync with mine
for the gargantuan hush
of constellations from whence
mother came to wish us goodnight
and how you wept, eyelashes
clogged with the salt of ripples
and the words we spoke
and swore not to forget just so
the devil's claws wouldn't
scratch the canvas.
You never knew, for I never told you,
but I always drowned sandpaper breath
upon your ear long after lulling you to sleep,
CadenzaI.Cadenza in Free Verse More Like This
Fear not when the tempest comes
and let it plummet from the pores of trees
and their gentle mew like the sudden sound
of silence, damsel of shadows,
for you cannot feel what you cannot hear.
Go, my love: go and scuttle away now that the grass is distracted;
go and run and sing to this sulking horizon as it marches its way
through light and shade, lulling your pebble-fingered fantasies
to their gentle slumbers.
Go now, night-feathered daughter of all words never spoken,
now that the evening arrives like the meandering feet of giants,
and let us not dwell on the wandering fates of the damned
for they gather in the dusk with the claws of the Atlantic.
Setting SailBy the time they moved her upstairsSetting Sail in Free Verse More Like This
from the ICU, a handful of birds
had already flown from her limbs
to chase Spring in a younger place.
She was tired.
We wrestled for seats in the waiting room,
unsure of what to expect. Most of us were afraid.
She always smiled, ashamed of the attention she was getting,
ashamed to be closing little doors for everyone around her.
Grandpa has since then grown bitter,
a frustrated man who has always been the man of the house,
different times, different values.
His twin brother died shortly after birth;
didn't wait for his eyes to bloom open,
never let the sun rush through him
or fought in the back seat of a car.
Grandmother says he hits her, calls her names.
He's afraid. No one taught him how to mourn.
As she weeps, now that we are separate continents
and cannot speak the same language anymore,
I wonder who inhabited those stripped hospital beds
only to linger in the room, who's gone home, who has passed
or who later died in the arms of someone who will
Conjugating shadowYou must dream of animals, afraid,Conjugating shadow in Free Verse More Like This
pitching themselves into hollowed-out buildings,
built several stories down into the earth.
- Sarah Vap
We were kids.
After dinner we would cocoon
on the front porch, asking birds
about the anatomy of wings
like toothless men at the park,
It's getting dark;
we're better off inside,
Words always wore
the faint sound of rain
picking at the asphalt.
When Winter came,
we'd tilt our heads back
like the ocean when it snows.
Mother had given up by then,
a stranger to the word,
for the sky to fall.
We were kids.
We didn't know what it meant
until it cobwebbed
around our limbs:
As I sit here, mid-breath,
a slender fist of light
sways in a lamp like a man
refusing to blink.
My body, I feel,
even father's hands,
whom I could never scrape
from the flesh.
I am tired. The sun, the sea
and all the bones left untouched:
I am tired.
Meet me on the grass, yes,
where we were once born
Cabin feverEvery word was a bullet to the temple,Cabin fever in Free Verse More Like This
There was always that faint static
billowing beyond the cracked glass,
the devil's breath a storm raging outside
like a war of titans above the clouds
and the weeping glitter of the undertow
reverberating off the corner of your eye.
The curtains swayed and swung,
its loose-ends like serpent-tongues
flickering wind-venom to salt the wound
of sunburnt kisses and the gargle
of wet sand everytime we spoke;
the shadowed tapping of heartbeats
like a bee-hive strumming the strings
of our cochleas.
You always wondered about the whys,
the whats and ifs of this and that,
and we'd always fall asleep with no intention
of sleeping at all but you didn't mind;
I kept you safe from the rippled sentries,
stubborn to disturb every synapse
of a pleasant dream; I always whispered,
pushed, pulled, wished and dreamt
the devil away--
you never listened, the hymeneal drip
of rust from my tongue to yours
we would always coalesce
a chama de um corpoi.a chama de um corpo in Free Verse More Like This
has been crumbling over the city
for hours; a gust of wind yawns the window open
again and again.
the hiss of thunder
on the last wakened leaf
swallows the scent of sleep
from my limbs.
dust travels from gutter to gutter
like the breath of strangers,
I hear nothing.
dinner's getting cold.
a hush shakens me
like a tap on the shoulder
and the porch lights
stretch every shadow
into new forms
to make me feel tall
for the first time.
v. trains in the open road
streetlamps burn bright
in sudden streams of flame:
I hear nothing; all that's left
is the intermittence of rain
against the roofs of cars
and dust rising as if summoned
to give me something I can breathe
other than the smoke of words:
I hear nothing; I can hear nothing.
fog arrives like sleep;
across the grass
strolls the white ring of sky
to give dreams another go:
I lie on the neverending curtain of fields
and the lilacs cocoon underneath my feet again.
Digesting VoicelessnessTell me I am here.Digesting Voicelessness in Free Verse More Like This
Tell me I am something
other than this I've felt
ever since I was my father's child.
Sleep was the fever of Summer wings,
our splintered feet begging please
'til the vesper bell hummed
in the pendulous wind
as if smothered.
We'd often dream of drowning,
knuckle-deep into the womb
for her breath to funnel through
like the voice of God,
but it never came.
God bears the shape of my wounds
and I the rising sun's.
We'd flicker at the touch,
purring, our bodies leaning
towards the rivers
as if threatning to fly.
At night we were ghosts, teethless,
our ribs stinging against the flesh
Tell me I am here: peel my lungs back
so I can breathe.
We'd sit out on the front porch
with swollen necks
from swallowing the sky too fast
and count crows sneaking
out of the dark, slowly,
until they were sparrows
in the great big distance.
the blindthe gardensthe blind in Free Verse More Like This
stretch their green arms toward the fields
like a river passing the torch
to the great blue of the ocean.
steady now, the hyacinths lean north
like an army of men, listening
to a young boy and girl speaking of love
as if they have found some sort of treasure.
it is the first day of spring to them:
the flowers stand, salute the sky,
and blossom as if undressing,
vulnerable but stern.
and as the blind dream
of what they have never seen, you dream
of what you have never allowed yourself to see.
ChrysalisI.Chrysalis in Free Verse More Like This
An endless fin of blackbirds
hurries towards the ocean
with feathers aflame:
the sky awakens
a river of neon lights.
The sun breathes its belly in
to fit in every street,
perches on the edge
of a mountain and drowns.
A womb of leaves
in the gutter
a white sheet of mist
sways upon the pavement
like a child in the dark.
Music soars over the waters:
brushed softly by the shadow
of a wing, the crumpled letter
of sheets unfolds ever so softly.
Marrow and starfish and shells
from seven seas: the sun leaps
on the poppies.
The day rings bright
with the flight
I spread my arms
and arch my back
the suddenly fractioned fire
of geese swimming across
the Summer Sun
scrapes my heart.
An unfolding tongue of leaves
hisses upon the weathervane;
the silvered dew of fish
under the sun's light
glides through a small village
of shells and tears the ocean
paper-thinThe following story is a work of fiction. All events and inhabitants are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living, dead, or supernatural, is entirely coincidental. Take my word for it: it's all made up. Never mind what the story says.paper-thin in General Fiction More Like This
ACT I; Scene 1
This is a true story. I have recorded everything as it happened and have neither added nor removed anything.
We open upon an opened home: imagine an apartment building minus the façade, like a doll-house, its rooms exposed for the divine female from beyond to reach inside and pose its plastic inhabitants in humorous situations. We do not see the little girl playing with her little world, but we can picture her: blond, of course, and pony-tailed, immersed in her own miniature play. She breathes life into those static toys and settles their fates between luncheon and dinner.
She is not malevolent.
Let us inspect the house again. Barbie and Ken have ne
The Importance of Being FrankThe Importance of Being Frank in General Fiction More Like This
The Importance Of Being Frank
At the end of this story, a Frenchman will be eaten by African driver ants.
* * *
Silvie closed the stall door behind her; she closed it timidly, with an empty expression on her face. Her hand shook. She paused for a moment, her mouth half open, her lip curled upward, and a frown on her forehead.
Then she walked over to the wash basins.
A fly buzzed between her and the mirror. She turned on the faucet, filled her cupped hands with water, and splashed it on her face. She looked at the stall's reflection in the mirror, closed her eyes, and slapped herself.
Let us slow down to take in the sights. At the exact moment Silvie's hand hits her cheek, everyth
Arborical CarnivoreI,Arborical Carnivore in Free Verse More Like This
I take what I need from the earth.
The sun is my lover, she shines on my leaves.
All is the same to me.
your name in my skin.
and her name,
and finally: a heart.
All is the same to me.
She comes and you
Show her my heart
She traces my bark
The wind is my lover—you sit in my shade.
He blows through my leaves—you mate.
My sappy heart oozes.
Your bodies are warm to my skin.
The sun is my lover, the wind is my lover,
she shines on my leaves, he blows through my leaves.
and you sleep
by my feet.
All is the same to me.
I am your secret.
My feet are your bed.
I will keep your secret.
Then: she speaks.
She's leaving, she says.
Your knife writes your name in her heart.
Her body is warm to my skin.
Your knife writes her name in your heart.
Your bodies grow cold t
Fuck you, grapefruitFuck you, grapefruit. Fuck you right in your sickly dark-red ass.Fuck you, grapefruit in Editorial More Like This
Grapefruits are the Nigerian spam of the world of fruit. Yay, I just got $20,000,000 off this Nigerian prince on the internet. Wait, why is my bank account empty? Yay, oranges! Wait, grapefruit.
In every way that oranges are awesome, grapefruits are awful. Just look at them! Oranges are joyful, bright, full of life--they're orange! Grapefruits are the sickly pale hue of a nerd that sits in front of his PC 20 hours a day grinding quests in World of Warcraft. "That's not all I do," Grapefruits insist in their whiny high-pitched voices. "I have other interests! For instance, let me show you my 15 terabyte collection of racist hentai. I'm the only collector outside of Japan!" Go away, grapefruits. "This one is about a nazi officer who summons demons by raping Chinese mothers to death." Fuck you, grapefruits.
Look at their flesh! Oranges are brimming with positive orange-ness. You can see all the sun they stored up, convenien
2nd person fiction and YouYou like fiction written in the second person. You may not admit it to yourself, but deep down, you really do. It teases you with its confrontational otherness, its flamboyantly displayed post-modernism, its teeth.2nd person fiction and You in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Do not look at its teeth. You do not want to look at its teeth.
Fiction written in the second person and you have a long history of denial. At first, you were sure it couldn't be done. Then it was done, and it was done to you, and you liked it, too, but it was only the one time and you were kind of drunk. It was an experiment, and it was interesting as an experiment, but that was all it was.
Only, of course, it wasn't.
Fiction written in the second person has invaded your dreams, and what's worse, your sexual fantasies. You'd be picturing a luscious blonde, rubbing her rubbables, yearning for your touch, when suddenly a voice would pop into your head, calmly narrating what you were doing: "You are picturing a luscious blonde," the voice would say, "rubbing her rubbables. Hey
My Father 1When he was 30My Father 1 in Free Verse More Like This
my father had built and torn down
and rebuilt again a shed
with his own hands;
had planned a future for himself and his wife
and the two children he knew he'd have.
My father had serious hobbies.
I remember the oscilloscopes and the smell
He would come home from work and pore over
financial documents, figure out how to keep us
safe and secure and comfortable.
Because that is what grown-ups do.
And he'd worry and frown and talk seriously
to serious men.
It was clear to me then that there was a line
between child and man, and that I was
on this side and he on the other.
That was fine. The line would come closer
and one day I'd leap over it
and be a serious man, too.
I am still waiting.
I am 30 now.
It is not what I thought it would be.
It is no different from being 16, only that now
I have no one to send me to bed at 11,
so I stay up until 5,
I have no one to tell me to get my finances straight,
so I don't.
And I am not alone.
We are not grown-ups, but overg
Bluegrass and BirdsongBluegrass and BirdsongBluegrass and Birdsong in Free Verse More Like This
For Maria, who dared me
The city has sirens
and strangers who puke
Out in the country
The faces are friendly
That eye-bulge and heave
The city has sinners
You watch from a distance
Who are careless, unwholesome
And you want to run with them
And see where they take you
But it's late and there's work
And you better go home.
Out in the country
The night-air is colder
The silences longer
And nowhere is nearer
And upon returning you think to yourself
What a fool that I was to ever have left
The silence, the faces, the foresty places
And the memories of youthful thoughts
But the hours were wasted
With the same friendly faces
And the circuitous thinking
That forests provoke
That rhythm was safety.
Until you left, of course.
When one leaves safe things behind
One often finds that newness is not only
Wie ein Gedicht fügt die Geschichte
Of a change in your life
Sich unwillig zusammen
And there is more silence
One of my many superpowersSometimes I walk home with a painful bursting bladderOne of my many superpowers in Free Verse More Like This
past a dozen weeing men
just to feel superior.
DiscoveryDISCOVERYDiscovery in Scripts & Screenplays More Like This
WIFE, a wife
HUSBAND, a husband
WOMAN, a woman
AUDIENCE (taped), you
(A simple room with a front door. Separated from it by a wall with a door in it, a bathroom with a shower. There is a chair in the room. HUSBAND and WIFE are standing in the room.)
(patting his large stomach contendly)
Those were mighty fine beans, wife. I think I will go and take a shower now.
Then I will patiently await your return.
(HUSBAND goes to the bathroom and undresses in full view of AUDIENCE (taped). Cat calls from AUDIENCE (taped). WIFE sits down on the chair, facing AUDIENCE (taped). HUSBAND commences showering procedure. A doorbell rings.)
(consulting her wrist watch)
Who could it be at this time?
(WIFE gets up and opens the door, revealing WOMAN. AUDIENCE (taped) applauds.)
Oh, hello! You wouldn't happen to be Mrs. Bartholomew Redshaw?
Why, yes, that's me!
Oh, good, because I found this wallet, and it
A Rallying NotionToday or never.A Rallying Notion in Free Verse More Like This
Lets roll up these sleeves.
Lets bring forth a cry.
Let us two make a pact.
Echoed in the bonds of each pair.
We will not give up. We will not surrender.
We have found the enemy, and he is us.
Lets raise up the tools of our labor,
And labor and callus our hands,
Soak blood through the field of our bed
Soak sweat through the front of our pillows
Lets rally ourselves till our heads swim
And our eyes blank, and blanking
Lets fall with each other.
BostonIn this broad city, I have landed like a flightless bird.Boston in Free Verse More Like This
The bright feeling of sunset here,
Leaves something to be desired in my ostrich body.
Even though the gulls and cormorants lap it up,
With the Charles already in their wet throats.
I feel, often, that I am also taking off,
Like my flighted cousins, I am stretching
And fishing and flapping towards my own future,
Which Ive been told should be a dawn, but always, inevitably
Looks like a beautiful sunset.
In this heavy, joyful place, I find the same old pockets.
There is solitude, and the anxious killing of time.
In between work with sunny-faced infants
(who always pay more attention than they should)
There are all of the same failings.
And it is this quality that makes me so thankful,
That I did not leave to escape myself,
But only to reach for an uncertain future.
For the things I love are now left behind
Only to meet me again,
When I trace my way through
To complete the circle.
Reviewer TwoHe rode to war with pen in hand,Reviewer Two in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
And worthy paper foes he slew.
The ivory warlords could not stand;
In alma mater, foreign land,
And even in the journals grand,
The deepest minds he did subdue.
But one blow made it through his shield;
An enemy -- Reviewer Two.
This sagged beast refused to yield,
Indeed would never leave the field.
Retired, to his lair he wheeled
To cry, "Revise! More data, too".
The crotchety reviewer aimed,
And academic blood he drew.
That editors, so bowed and shamed,
Permit prestige concerns so lame,
Our hero quipped -- "The rig is gamed!
Lord, let me live through this review".
But Lord The Editor is fickle.
What carest he for a career?
Or research slowing to a trickle?
Or that the cost's a good grant nickel?
All for the sake of one small stickle,
From some old man who needs a beer.
Such struggles ever heroes make.
As our man set his will, he knew --
Reviewers do not bend, they break.
What won't one do for science' sake?
And so, with guilty, heart-filled ache,
Passing ThroughThrifty shadows surrender me,Passing Through in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Lovers surround me,
Dig holes in my body
With tickly pink armies.
Fingertipping their way to me,
Ghost-picking, play through me,
Rawhide and wishbone
And bloodthirsty artery.
Pressing each cell in me,
Shifting the heart of me,
Crashing through channels
Held loose by captivity.
Flowing an end to me,
Leaving to render me,
Screaming hot moments
Of sun-cracking novelty.
Open me upI want you to peel me like a clementine.Open me up in Free Verse More Like This
When you find that the birds within my cage
Have all exploded or run away
They will not seem like seeds or flights of fancy
They will be the evidence youve always needed
To assure you that youve broken my bridges,
That you filled in the cracks in my pavement with discount cement.
I cant tell you how many of those there were.
Its for you to find out what birds leave, when they leave.
I imagine its nothing short of a feast with white icing.
I think youll like the treasures available when you sort through my rubble.
Dont be afraid of spilling me.
If my endoskeleton is all you find, thats because the juices, my rich rewards, do dry up after enough time spent baking in the sun.
Love and MayonnaiseI'd rather fall in love with mayonnaise.Love and Mayonnaise in Free Verse More Like This
It is, after all,
As white and smooth
As any woman's thigh.
The pleasure on my tongue,
In my mouth,
In my nostrils,
Not unlike a woman's scent.
A difference, perhaps of kind,
But certainly not of degree.
And when it finally kills me,
With cholesterol grease.
With the soft shock of
an attack on my heart.
It will be no different
A woman would have done it.
Rather than slowly shrinking the arteries,
Women prefer to use knives.
A poor attempt at BrodskyThings and people surround usA poor attempt at Brodsky in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
The former more pleasant
The latter, no time like the present
To slither and wither each other
Win safety through sacrifice
Of teacher or lover or brother.
Things are kinder, more simple
They are neither evil nor good.
Making sawdust from knotted wood
They are fabric and rot
Which, when He calls the sky down,
Have the sense not to notice the presence of God.
Being leftStay with me, let your hands fall.Being left in Free Verse More Like This
Your fingers so small, I'll never find them.
Outside, the world has too many fingers.
Let the orange in your hair be the sun.
The flies that circle us now are singing our song.
Like a light, we draw these flies and beetles.
Is it because we are vibrant?
Do they sense our vitality and want to thank us?
It is ironic to unfold all your dresses now.
We never looked at them until you started packing.
There is a blue, and an orange, with pips for buttons.
What if I remind you of the time when you spilled orange juice?
Only I noticed, but you thought everyone would, and you hid.
I still don't know if it came out or if your dress drank it.
All of those times? Let your hands fall.
I promise, it is all better outside.
There are ponies, and nail polish, and you can even have red.
But I always thought better things were not why we were.
Maybe you know more now.
I wish only you would tell me.
I wish only to know where to go.
Love and RootsDeep roots run through all things.Love and Roots in Free Verse More Like This
And just as the tree knows,
And the fruit senses, explicit in youthful awe,
And the bird assumes through gnarled experience,
That earthly succor grounds their heady origins,
Though the edges of their lives might be aimed at the clouds.
So I know also,
That our roots run together,
You and I.
White Sunday 63: patience IImy loveWhite Sunday 63: patience II in Free Verse More Like This
you asked me to wait
and I shall.
for love is not a word to me.
it is a place where things touch
more than the consecration of flesh
more than the hydraulic mesh
of hips and lips in eclipse.
it is a place where words signify truth
and cold iron and sharp rocks
and fantasies and memories
are not to be underestimated.
you will understand one day
more than you do now
about so many things.
I will not pick you out
from between my teeth in pink scraps
with my lesbian-short fingernails.
I will not write platitudes
while all the while my soul
lays in a black marble tub, wrists slit.
I will celebrate the apple harvest
if not this year, then next or next,
I am, you have said, patient and kind.
I will pace myself on this road
to yet another Damascus, knowing Rome
awaits all true evangelists. Even me.
I will lay in the chair and await you,
promises kept in eventuality
are not lies and need no regrets.
you asked me to wait
and I shall.
William F. Devault. all
White Sunday 88: lullabyeI will hold you tonightWhite Sunday 88: lullabye in Free Verse More Like This
and let you fade into the comforting grey.
my heartbeat your metronome.
my breath evidence of my vigilance.
my warmth proof of my passion and presence.
I am here for you
even when I am not, for my will is strong
to belong in your arms, your bed, your life
and I will always be where you need me
even if just to play comfort to your needs.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
to a loverThis is not for the cold catalepsiesto a lover in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
but the pure warmth you can invoke
with a soft smile or the simplest ease
with words of truth and love. In you awoke
my slumbering passion, admiration
for this woman who steps into my life
with hesitant grace, elegance hard won
in her own sphere, now as near as a wife
though more than one reasoned season shall pass
before you may choose to lose your ronin
reputation to the gentle impasse
within sharing, caring, daring to win
whatever it is within my power
to grant to you. I am your dreams' bower.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
Katrina was a bitchthe wind and waters came like angry swarms of waspsKatrina was a bitch in Free Verse More Like This
stinging down the barriers in the artifice of all,
bringing down walls and roads and entire towns,
washing away sorrows to be replaced tenfold.
Katrina was a bitch
even moreso to me, after a fashion. Katrina was a bitch,
for she took my mortality. the coffin my friend
Thom had made for me 30 years before,
that I had humped across this country, back and forth,
to be buried in, one day.
Katrina took it. oh, she had her accessories before
and after the fact of her acting out against
whatever it was she was pissed off about that day,
but I blame her. without my coffin, I cannot die.
yeah, Katrina made me immortal. the bitch.
now I must endure human suffering forever.
I must watch those I love wither and die and know
that I cannot be with them, again, ever.
Katrina was a bitch, heartless and cruel to thousands,
millions, and a symbol of the wrath of nature
before the incompetence of ma
White Sunday 65: the silenceyou never need to say a word to be heardWhite Sunday 65: the silence in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
but interpretation sometimes fails me when silence
takes you, makes you mute and elusive.
I am used to the brighter chords of birds
calling out their needs to skies, their presence
proof enough of their purpose, proof they live.
when I am silenced and sealed away, entombed
by the necessity of your fragile, agile nature,
I pound against the black stone walls,
the iron headboard a cell door, my assumed
stability mocked by pain and your unsure
whispers. I vow, but now, your silence calls.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
The Seventh Songso bitter lies my wormwood soulThe Seventh Song in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
deserved of contempt and of wrath.
the pain and stain of failed control,
reserved for heaven, hellions laugh.
for what is man if not his best,
and what are dreams if not to shape
with gnarled hands and hearts we attest
the moment's kiss, the decade's rape.
the towers fall and we cannot climb
higher than the lowest stone that fell.
our wings have not winds, e'en sublime,
to lift us up and mock this Hell.
for patience pales and curdles black
within our souls, we can't look back.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
The Nereid, ThetisShe rose from the water to taunt me, to haunt me.The Nereid, Thetis in Free Verse More Like This
More beautiful than I had remembered.
The prickly, sickly smell of the low tide
pricked my pride and I was castaway
to stack all my memories like coins
wagered in a strange game of time lost.
The cost incalculable.
So here I am, again, the green felt sand
like a belt around the girth of waters
where play the daughters of man
brushing the crushing waves
that echo into themselves
words whispered in times forgotten.
But I hear when I draw near as I dare.
I am home. I am home.
The bright horizon draws down the curtain
to invite the stars to dance
and stare at me, my hair caught
in a hot, final gout of ions
torn from the desert to follow the sun.
As I did, until it hid from me, behind the sea
to sneak up on me later, from behind.
The well-traveled breeze.
The bark of waves on sand. The hand of God
in every inarticulate clearing of the throat
of the Charybdis. This is where we begin and end,
friend and assassin. Lover and liar, synon
White Sunday 51teach me of yourWhite Sunday 51 in Free Verse More Like This
that you see
when you close your eyes
is just another excuse
for the cynicism of others.
for plato said
this is all shadows.
have great peripheral vision
and have been known
to move my neck
to see things most
can't or won't.
a frame of reference
whether it is
Aphrodite or Venus
or another pantheon,
so that I do not
defile your temples
(in a bad way)
this is important to me,
as you are,
and I would know my place
and feel secure
I will always
wake up in your arms,
and you in mine.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
Le careme affectifJe m'entaille les poumons à grandLe careme affectif in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
coup de morsure de nicotine.
Je vis dans une ville fantôme
au beau milieu du désert.
Je me laisse berner par mon inconscient
le faisant passer à tord pour la raison.
Suis je fou de tout brûler pour une caresse?
car est ce que je risque quelque chose quand
ce qui m'entoure n'est que soleil de poussière
et d'isolement phobique ou encore dévastation méthodique.
Tiens je crois qu'il est temps d'oublier mon carême sentimental.
J'en ai plus soif de n'avoir rien bu.
Mateo52 alias Matthieu Judek
Le poetUn poète est un hommeLe poet in Spoken Word More Like This
sans cesse en écrivant
à changer le mal et la haine
d'un coup de lettres magique
en calme et amour, qui coule dans ses veines...
Mais il n'y arrives pas
car il reste las,
les yeux dans un ailleurs
Un paradis meilleur.
Le corps mutilé par ce monde
dans lequel il doit guider la ronde
vis et depeches toiouvre grand les yeux et cesse de respirer.vis et depeches toi in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
écoute le bourdonnement de ta pensée
comme le bruit des sandales dans les cailloux
Vis ta vie comme jamais tu ne l'as encore vécue.
Souffre, le coeur à 200km/h alors que la masse
s'efface en couleurs pâles.
Ignore les limites et sers toi d'un jet d'eau
comme lance pierre,
Les baseslire le commentaire avant de lire ce qui suit s'il vous plais.Les bases in Other More Like This
Se plonger dans une léthargie
S'enfoncer et chercher l'énergie
Sentir monter l'angoisse
Se torturer, s'extirper de la poisse
Ne faire plus qu'un
prendre pour soi la création d'un autre
et écrire, écrire, compulsivement.
Sentir ce souffle ce couper
S'effondrer perdre pied
s'abandonner, dans la répétition
le mimétisme. finalement L'homme
n'apprend Jamais du passé. Il le renouvelle
L'attend et l'accueil à bras ouvert
Le remercie. Celui qui va encore le détruire...
S'effacer...Devenir La musique
Ne devenir qu'une représentation
vivante de la musique qui coule dans tes veines
s'efforcer d'aller toujours plus loin.
Lui abandonner corps et âme...
avant de frénétiquement reprendre ses esprits
et respirer comme si l'on venait de nous sauver de la noyade...De l'asphyxi
My Art for MloyangDrawloImagine L'interactionMy Art for MloyangDrawlo in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
Le Ciel et la Terre....
Leur point de rencontre
Les mains jointes dans l'absolue, les unissant à l'encontre
Des résolutions raisonnés d'un univers éphémère
Ton navire se tient là
Balayé par le vent malmené par les flots
Les volutes de l'infini insaisissable te transportent
tu t'y abandonnes, quand des couleurs
avant de répéter sans cesse près de ton cur:
Music is the only sensual vice without sin
Cas d'HavreJ'ai trouvé une épitaphe sur le bord du cheminCas d'Havre in Spoken Word More Like This
Un cadavre abandonné, un mort du matin.
M'arrêtant devant pour en observer tous les traits
Je m'aperçois avec stupeur qu'à son coup mon nom est porté.
Je le regarde, emprunt de lumière dans les yeux.
Bien que par mégarde j'eus fait en arrière un pas ou deux.
Le calme qu'il dégage suinte tel un halo qu'il l'entour,
Un navire après l'orage respirant le souffle court.
L'aura d'amour et d'élégance,
éloigne vautours et odeur de rance.
Laissant béa, les gens qui autour s'amassent.
Ce cas Havre que j'ai découvert,
non loin d'une betterave arraché à la terre
coule maintenant en moi comme le Grave teinte mon verre.
L'AutomneJ'ai des collants opaque et une jupe plissée de malice.L'Automne in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
J'égraine le temps comme j'inonde le monde
de feuilles mortes et de routes qui glissent.
Je saute dans les flaques pour faire s'enfuir
les oiseaux et prévenir de mon arrivée.
Je peints ma vie en nuances de gris.
Douce et câline je m'enroule dans une couette de nuages.
Je fais scintiller le ciel par les millions d'éclairs que j'ai dans les yeux.
J'aime me draper dans les odeurs de la terre d'automne
Et hanter la nature de mes brumes Mystérieuses.
J'engourdis l'elliptique de mon passage jusqu'à l'hypnose hivernale.
vis et depeches toi EDITouvre grand les yeux et cesse de respirer.vis et depeches toi EDIT in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
écoute le bourdonnement de ta pensée
comme le bruit des sandales dans les cailloux
Vis ta vie comme jamais tu ne l'as encore vécue.
Souffre, le coeur à 200km/h alors que la masse
s'efface en couleurs pâles.
Ignore les limites et sers toi d'un jet d'eau
comme lance pierre,
avant de fondre en un million d'étoiles
et d'étinceler enfin ces yeux pétillants
Malicieux et dévoreurs
pour qu'enfin dans les grands boulevards
Tu fasses l'avion.
a shot at romancea shot at romance in Free Verse More Like This
my father used to shoot rockets
at girls he liked. my mother shot
elastic bands (and whisky) and
snakes at boys she didn't like.
they got married, and there
are fireworks in the sky.
continental driftcontinental drift in Free Verse More Like This
do you remember how the earth shook
during afternoon tea, the porcelain
quivering as we moved as gracefully
as tectonics, your magmatic lips
shifting fault lines against mine;
how the waves we watched
on the seismograph haunted us
with its binary of mountain or rift?
if we are to remain
static, we will be
i do not remember.
tonight, my legs lay still beneath
a lithosphere of flannel tired
of rubbing against the other
remembering earthquakes only kill
when the things weve built
on top of them
peace on earth.peace on earth in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
pine tree crucified
in christmas lights / kids kicking
a snowmans head home
three letters to hadesI.three letters to hades in General Fiction More Like This
This is how I want to die:
I will have sent letters to the few in my life - a cascade of leaves with veins very much like my own. It is an injustice that they depart with such colourful splendor, while we lay limp in our anemic pallor, dull slabs of marble flesh. I will have lain down my body and tools beside that which is my greatest work, in marriage to what I shall become. The doors will be locked, a fire at the threshold, and mortality set in my heart. The décor, I leave, up to you.
A few odd decades have passed, and I mean no offense when I say I am taken by the joys of this absurd existence. Even so, I understand our contract it is our tragedy, is it not? I must thank you for giving me the opportunity to express my preference in advance; but, to the matter at hand, to put it simply, I wish this to be painless for myself and others.
As I have said, I shall leave the rest to you.
songs about slumbersongs about slumber in Free Verse More Like This
our city is a bed
a man tries to straighten the wrinkled
sheet of road gives up, sits down,
pans the street for change
the apartment building thrusts, phallic,
making love to an empty sky. a burst
of pigeons coo shut up shut up
a boy tries to fall asleep. his nightlight
is a myth that burns out once a day
the girl walks off her roof
our city is not a mattress
ResignationResignation in Free Verse More Like This
poetry to soften the fall,
caring not for lovers
breaking a suitors
I have not
written poetry to inspire
the mob, should
revolution prove us
I have not written
poetry to elate the heart
for it to sink
I have not written poetry
only this: labors
of a silly idea
that I could confine your stride
DormouseIt seems we walkedDormouse in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
Though I don't know for sure
Because you had the pocket
Watch and all I had
Were my clumsy rabbit
I forget before that;
If I showed up late
Or if the God damn
Dormouse ever actually
Said anything at all.
I forget after that too;
Why we were walking
Maybe we were looking
For the Dormouse,
But I can't remember
If it was ever even there
To begin with.
OrionHe takes pillsOrion in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
To be flakes of gold,
The barbed edges
Is as soft and cold
As the ocean,
And death is the depth
Of its madness.
And they are harmless,
Really, when one
Considers how the blood
Is cast in iron
And poems are poisoned
The tablets as instructed,
Considering how the sea
Once swallowed Shelley
And no words were found
To rouse him.
The Magician at DawnSelf-conscious of its majesty,The Magician at Dawn in Free Verse More Like This
the sun miscalculates
the angle of the curtains
and tumbles into bed
with the magician.
And the magician is pretending to be sleeping
so he can negotiate the dawn
for his lover
and raise the Aten for them
in place of dreaming.
And he is in love
with the morning bowed
to his bed
and the chorus of halcyon birds
and the dreams he tries to touch
yet guards like a sphinx with his torpor.
And he knows
that only pagans can manoeuvre the sun,
but he can suspend logic
for it to rise.
Smoke SignalsNicotine growsSmoke Signals in Free Verse More Like This
in the grass
where you found me
with your enemies.
You had told me
not to waste
myself in fire.
Have I disappointed you?
Paracetamol is a dirty wordHospitalsParacetamol is a dirty word in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
When it comes to customer
(I was old, frail
And in agony
So they tried
To take me back
To where I was born
But the nurses refused
To mend or exchange me.)
A Malfunction of the MouthThe magician finds an arrangement of skinA Malfunction of the Mouth in Free Verse More Like This
where death is dissembling
in the place of sleeve-plucked birdsong
and is perpetuating a crying
His gut-fed lover is searching
their own distorted physiognomy
for traces of beak,
of lies, of wood,
and is finding skin
and only skin.
This is a crying unlike before
and it is so loud that
it squeezes all the
from the magicians
until he cant
Blinding FlorenceThe man that walks downBlinding Florence in Free Verse More Like This
By the ocean has the face
Of the dead and drunk
Who become each night
Giddy with rolling between
The sun-blind stars
And the beds of girls
Who, through sleeping,
Have become destitute of vision
And will to drink the whole ocean dry
Because they cannot find the beach-walking man
For the sea has made union with the sky.
(And there are no spells to bring him down
To where lips weaken in his wake and drown.)
My Heart Always Returns To MeMy sagging heart alwaysMy Heart Always Returns To Me in Free Verse More Like This
Returns to me; cringing
Like a wounded animal,
Tail between its legs, an
India-ink river of blood
Mapped across the kitchen floor.
I blindly follow these maps
Back to myself.
Like a wounded animal it lies
Whimpering and grotesque
On the tiles, flayed and shaking,
Reeking of iron and fur.
In my arms, my little animal
Slackens, shudders, is still for a while.
In it I can bury my breath, my face
As I wait for it to howl.
the lonely planet's guideIt was three AMthe lonely planet's guide in Free Verse More Like This
It was three AM
we were talking about
and I was too ashamed
to admit that I couldn't
remember how that felt,
staring stupidly at the
piss-stained bed and then
at the ceiling. There was a moth
the size of my heart and coloured
in like autumn and pain. That's me,
and then threw my shoes at it.
The next day on the metro
somebody had scratched C'EST
A CHIER onto the window
and it was only then that
I felt the papery beating of
winged grief in my
You might think that it's
pretentious to write about
Paris, but that's where I was.
nique ta mère.
You Poor ThingI am sorry for your skeleton,You Poor Thing in Free Verse More Like This
the way you carry yourself when you walk into a room
like your arms are tied and your mouth is empty and you've been
kept prisoner for a year, waiting for a bird to arrive
at your window. Your eyes are full and I spread my hands and say this;
sorry, like a man abandoning his lover in a cloud of dust. I am sorry for
your eyes, resentful like a North American river.
Sorry, for everything, for your breasts and womanhood.
You are standing on the edge of eighteen
relunctant and awkward; you do not want
to spread your legs wide and let the world drop its' pants
to fuck you. You are standing on the edge of something
looking afraid and saying no,
I don't want any spaghetti. I'm not hungry.
I'm hurting and horrible the way that a person feels
when they shatter the shell of a snail by
accident. I cannot say sorry
enough for your hands, scrabbling at the surface
of a wooden panel unheard, clawing at one another
like you're putting a deer in the headlights
d.i.di.d.i.d in Free Verse More Like This
the first time i saw her
alone in the cafeteria
scrap of cling film
wrapped tightly around her finger
i had a friend
but she died
and now i am not the same
she is the one i love
touching the edges
of a kitten sticker
on her french notes like it was her dead
grandmother in an open casket
blanched white fingertips
no i am not the same
she hurts the world and
rapes the earth and
the rabbits scream and
the trees scream and
the air screams and
she sits at the hearth with fur in her hands
i go into work with bruises on my breasts
we do not kiss
or make love
because it makes her cry
but she loves me best when we are
and she is mine
my little golden idol
little sleeping one
she says why did you give him a rabbit?
why are you taking him away from me?
i cannot see what she has written
she says there is a baby now
it hasn't a name and it never cries
and no one ever holds it
it grows and spreads like a weed
From Whence She CameBack down to the sea-floor she goesFrom Whence She Came in Free Verse More Like This
back to the coracle-clusters and starfish that
clamour, cling to her heart too tight,
walking barefoot towards where she
came from. It is too hard walking on
earth, the way she wears pain like a wedding ring
Back down, down, crawling on her belly
on the forest-floor, alive with the buzz and crawl
of worms and bird-prey. Back where she belongs with her
crazy palpitating wolf-heart, her bloody
deer-throat leaking in the snow, her yellow
eyes in the dark.
Back down, beyond subway trains, piano lessons,
falling rain, from whence she came, to the snow-covered womb
where she first gulped air.
Back down to a place before wildflowers,
fish on land, back to a locked box
full of old souls, from whence
it is not enoughit is not enough just toit is not enough in Free Verse More Like This
miss you. i have to learn
how to walk again; how to
live without meat and
kissing, how to sleep
shaped like a balled up
fist. it is not enough
just to miss you. i have
to adopt twins in
Africa, name them Lost
and Weird, forget to
feed them. i have to
go to every pet store
in America and rescue
all the seahorses. i have
to tattoo D A R K B I R D
inside my lip and stand
in children's playgrounds
like a broken arm, creaking. it
is not enough just to miss
you. it has to hurt. i
have to write poems
that last forever, interpret
dreams about buildings
burning down, flies who
leave their partners for
sad New York waitresses. i
have to work on my
posture. shave my head, wear
white dresses. i have to
be a chaffinch when i curse
into my fingers. it is not
enough to just miss you. i
have to be a crazy
crocus-woman; my lovely
hand curled close around
your heart, a bud sealed
tightly, tightly, tightly...