cult chemistry.you were occult to me,More Like This
the fine line drawn between chemistry and fiction.
because you read blindly,
about how i believe in science, not god,
and then the fog clears your head.
i believe in the things i read,
you were occult to me.
you made me blind to what i read.
i read the curving of your neck,
the incandescent swoon of every curse you put on me.
the things i read don’t exist anymore,
they are past
they are past
they are past
it is the cult of you,
the split the spread the threadyou were standing in the lamplight with all the grace and incident of the black seaMore Like This
and i sat with a scrape of skin pressing into the carpet uncomfortably.
a shift of light moved us quietly into arms, some forgotten touch newly placed.
the only stirring in all the world was the moving of our chests
which at their crests would touch—a faithful mythology of meeting.
titular gestures carried italics and lost their momentum mid-air.
we were xerics of this arid landscape brimmed with sea air.
the shifts of light moving our bodies glared ceremoniously,
our puckering sensations forming a stunning tear.
we danced as statues with flesh and touch
more soft and real than our real bodies ever had
and covered the subway floor with our gritty concrete shards
—a bloom of breaking that spread and mixed and marked
that linoleum floor, grounded stone(fire)works.
a warm and gathered silence of togetherness.
the still beat of murk.
Finding Treasures Under the StarsIn a moment of peaceMore Like This
When the journey is over
stones become castles
soft sheets.i feel your chest,More Like This
its deep breaths on my back:
the shiny tack
of this noisy homes back.
only a few degrees, rainy and
grainy and blue
how can there be better things ahead
outside of this bed
and ravenous gloom
in this noisy home
where we're free to roam
as the church bells groan
where we chew our food.
almost half subdued,
where our years are rightly gained.
Prologue: the Neglected ArtistWinter, 2012More Like This
The room is far from bare and empty, but the tenderness of another presence is long past gone. He sits, looking at a harsh light until he staggers. Sipping away his problems. Getting distracted easily. Far from bare and empty, there is fuddle, mess, shackles of laziness and ignorance. (Perhaps fear, too)
The boy, ash-ridden, and no longer a boy, stares at the clock, fervently. Thinking that, if he stares at it long enough, believes hard enough, that it'll reverse. But you know it won't, dear. For you've made him realize how there is no hope for the boy. A dim ceiling fan murks around the grey, easing itself towards a small canopy of dust and restarts. Floors, covered by useless things, collected over the years, kept only because of how well they can remind someone of things. Triggers, sentimentality, damn it all, fuck it all. (If he stares at the objects he keeps for too long, he knows he will start crying.) Even if he just sees you.. he'll make sure you
Emily Dickinson poemPart Three: LoveMore Like This
THE ROSE did caper on her cheek,
Her bodice rose and fell,
Her pretty speech, like drunken men,
Did stagger pitiful.
Her fingers fumbled at her work,— 5
Her needle would not go;
What ailed so smart a little maid
It puzzled me to know,
Till opposite I spied a cheek
That bore another rose; 10
Just opposite, another speech
That like the drunkard goes;
A vest that, like the bodice, danced
To the immortal tune,—
Till those two troubled little clocks 15
Ticked softly into one.
Emily Dickinson (1830–86). Complete Poems. 1924.
6680 by LilifIlane*** by winonaramon