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que sera sera
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baby

b

baby

She has red hair when I think of her or at least I saw red as she ran from me like wine wasted down the sink. So these days I keep an empty kitchen. In the absence of drink I eat no bread and need no knife to cut it, and after losing her I’d half a mind to send my body to the state - and being the last sharp thing I had, I surrendered her like a paperclip unbent thinking she and my shoelaces should be small enough to give.

an offering

a

an offering

I thrashed, God, and bit at the body you gave me. I gnashed at viscera and fruit, you watched me ripen and fall away like a blister. Now your heart flits and hums, swallowed moth, against my own, against spirit and breast so I ask - Would a lantern do for you, Lord where my tongue falters in drawing you to me? Maker, call me North Star or Elijah at altar, make me more miracle than salt

bi

b

bi

I crawled from him toward her as if heat-seeking, or else sought by some bleak hand beneath bedsheets laying fingers on flesh beneath shroud. So she wore new linens when she sang to me: At whatever he aimed his spear - be it boar, wild cat, or fox - none would escape but that had strong wings
6Comments

anorexic's lament

a

anorexic's lament

my lover crushed the budding fruit in me which ran from out my legs like currant wine – that sweet unwelcome blood of atrophy sat red upon her tongue as muscadine. her cup full up she turns her gaze to flesh to take from me her pound, then two, then five; to rake thin fingers cross the scalp and thresh my hair, like wheat, to pay some holy tithe and clutch me like a candle through the night. at morning light she pinches out the wick: she spends me, bends me down as acolyte to altars where her ash has settled thick     in lungs and throat and shallow-thrumming heart,     where all my lover’s love rends me apart.

old flames die hard

o

old flames die hard

oh jack be nimble take care as you strike your match in me, these hips all tallow, this spine all wick – jack be quick i am burned and i am wasted, my body worth most in its wasting you flickered in me two weeks more before that spark blew out on the south wind, red and dim – virgin again
3Comments

sepulcher

s

sepulcher

your body is jerusalem, he’ll tell you coveted first, then plundered. – you’re my backwater bedroom martyr, he’ll tell you as he nails your wrists to bedposts, seizes your tongue like a white flag, pulls stones from your parapets – little sister, i’ll tell you the children’s crusade is lost: and you’ll kneel at his sword and know you were always his to take
39Comments

biopsy

b

biopsy

he works rhythmically over the still girl on the table. the surgeon’s incisions are steady, practiced as scalpel hews flesh from hip to hip and near-tender, his hands and wrists were it not for all the blood – she wakes in fluorescence from half-slumber to the flutter of a phantom limb, some precious unnamed thing shorn from her and discarded. the amputation is final. she often counts backwards from ten, awaiting anesthesia that does not come.

an atheist's prayer

a

an atheist's prayer

dear god, i planted no tulips in autumn and no tulips came in spring. how silly of me, then to mourn the empty garden, to long for fields of amsterdam, to kneel at night in cold dirt, hands folded. i’ve learned there is a certain ache in lacking a thing never had, that small itch whose relief is two seasons past – so god, if you can hear me, know that i am homesick for amsterdam, whose name, like yours, i know but whose flowers i cannot see.

metastasis

m

metastasis

nana gave birth at eighteen and caught cancer at forty-eight, some summer-worn sunspot spreading from skin, first to take her breasts, then to shake her bones. forgive me, nana for what i’ve done: i will not give birth at eighteen. my rite has passed, this sapling carcinoma budding in my belly to be excised from within, to halt the swell, the warp of skin and breasts and bones, the intimate perversion of flesh. forgive me, nana for the blood and the bruising, for these new-empty hips, for the air thick with lysol and grief – i have done as you did once at forty-eight, though melanoma never had a heartbeat nor stirred in t

vatican

v

vatican

his voice in the dark something holy, holding me to him, my coliseum (did you see them, the pillars steady like hands beneath me, wreathed with laurels?) well i didn't see it, baby, but i felt it: his heartbeat the drum for the phalanx, the failing of words as he moves over me in parallax, in pax romana, the exorcism of the holy ghost within us, will us from our knees -- well i didn't see it, baby, but i felt it: the rise and fall of his chest like empires
5Comments
See all

baby

b

baby

She has red hair when I think of her or at least I saw red as she ran from me like wine wasted down the sink. So these days I keep an empty kitchen. In the absence of drink I eat no bread and need no knife to cut it, and after losing her I’d half a mind to send my body to the state - and being the last sharp thing I had, I surrendered her like a paperclip unbent thinking she and my shoelaces should be small enough to give.

an offering

a

an offering

I thrashed, God, and bit at the body you gave me. I gnashed at viscera and fruit, you watched me ripen and fall away like a blister. Now your heart flits and hums, swallowed moth, against my own, against spirit and breast so I ask - Would a lantern do for you, Lord where my tongue falters in drawing you to me? Maker, call me North Star or Elijah at altar, make me more miracle than salt

bi

b

bi

I crawled from him toward her as if heat-seeking, or else sought by some bleak hand beneath bedsheets laying fingers on flesh beneath shroud. So she wore new linens when she sang to me: At whatever he aimed his spear - be it boar, wild cat, or fox - none would escape but that had strong wings
6Comments

anorexic's lament

a

anorexic's lament

my lover crushed the budding fruit in me which ran from out my legs like currant wine – that sweet unwelcome blood of atrophy sat red upon her tongue as muscadine. her cup full up she turns her gaze to flesh to take from me her pound, then two, then five; to rake thin fingers cross the scalp and thresh my hair, like wheat, to pay some holy tithe and clutch me like a candle through the night. at morning light she pinches out the wick: she spends me, bends me down as acolyte to altars where her ash has settled thick     in lungs and throat and shallow-thrumming heart,     where all my lover’s love rends me apart.

old flames die hard

o

old flames die hard

oh jack be nimble take care as you strike your match in me, these hips all tallow, this spine all wick – jack be quick i am burned and i am wasted, my body worth most in its wasting you flickered in me two weeks more before that spark blew out on the south wind, red and dim – virgin again
3Comments

sepulcher

s

sepulcher

your body is jerusalem, he’ll tell you coveted first, then plundered. – you’re my backwater bedroom martyr, he’ll tell you as he nails your wrists to bedposts, seizes your tongue like a white flag, pulls stones from your parapets – little sister, i’ll tell you the children’s crusade is lost: and you’ll kneel at his sword and know you were always his to take
39Comments

biopsy

b

biopsy

he works rhythmically over the still girl on the table. the surgeon’s incisions are steady, practiced as scalpel hews flesh from hip to hip and near-tender, his hands and wrists were it not for all the blood – she wakes in fluorescence from half-slumber to the flutter of a phantom limb, some precious unnamed thing shorn from her and discarded. the amputation is final. she often counts backwards from ten, awaiting anesthesia that does not come.

an atheist's prayer

a

an atheist's prayer

dear god, i planted no tulips in autumn and no tulips came in spring. how silly of me, then to mourn the empty garden, to long for fields of amsterdam, to kneel at night in cold dirt, hands folded. i’ve learned there is a certain ache in lacking a thing never had, that small itch whose relief is two seasons past – so god, if you can hear me, know that i am homesick for amsterdam, whose name, like yours, i know but whose flowers i cannot see.

metastasis

m

metastasis

nana gave birth at eighteen and caught cancer at forty-eight, some summer-worn sunspot spreading from skin, first to take her breasts, then to shake her bones. forgive me, nana for what i’ve done: i will not give birth at eighteen. my rite has passed, this sapling carcinoma budding in my belly to be excised from within, to halt the swell, the warp of skin and breasts and bones, the intimate perversion of flesh. forgive me, nana for the blood and the bruising, for these new-empty hips, for the air thick with lysol and grief – i have done as you did once at forty-eight, though melanoma never had a heartbeat nor stirred in t

vatican

v

vatican

his voice in the dark something holy, holding me to him, my coliseum (did you see them, the pillars steady like hands beneath me, wreathed with laurels?) well i didn't see it, baby, but i felt it: his heartbeat the drum for the phalanx, the failing of words as he moves over me in parallax, in pax romana, the exorcism of the holy ghost within us, will us from our knees -- well i didn't see it, baby, but i felt it: the rise and fall of his chest like empires
5Comments

Monthly Round-up!

Monthly Round-up!

This Round-up's Features :star: The Black Mirror by Belladonna-Morte (https://www.deviantart.com/belladonna-morte) 'I fear the spirit in the mirror / Mocking me, calling me a hag / Oh! But I could hear it scream now / Curse the thing!' With a gothic-tone and feel, this poem unravels itself wonderfully as the reader is taken on a journey through abandoned rooms and a frozen moment in time. :star: All the Wrong Things: Part 1 by GuinevereToGwen (https://www.deviantart.com/guineveretogwen) Accepting that one has a problem is the first step to solving it - that and a little helpful distraction from friends Centred around therapy and the struggle to overcome addictions, this tale handles the sensitive topic of alcoholi

tWR Best Of!

tWR Best Of!

What is the Best of Feature? We want to celebrate our writers for their creativity and craft, and give props to the people that take their time to give great critique. Each week we will be featuring an amazing literature deviation and a fantastic comment. This Week's Features Best of Literature by ~moondrums (https://www.deviantart.com/moondrums) Best of Comments From :iconSykCyn: a  comment on to love and be loved. by :icon91816119: Want to get in on this? If you see a terrific comment or know of an awesome literature deviation that deserves a spotlight, feel free to comment on the journal or note one of our admins!

Daily Lit Recognition for March 29th, 2016

Daily Lit Recognition for March 29th, 2016

Daily Literature Recognition for March 29th, 2016 Featured Author of the Day Suggested by: Medoriko (https://www.deviantart.com/medoriko) Our featured author of the day is: moondrums (https://www.deviantart.com/moondrums) :la: moondrums (https://www.deviantart.com/moondrums) likes to partake in both photography and poetry. While I was immediately in love with her talents, her poetry blew me away the most. Her words are both clever and honest. A powerful piece that hurts after you read it, but you are too amazed to stop. She manages to not be melodramatic in her use of biblical imagery-- it only aids in this masterpiece. The first stanza shakes me. Simply breathtaking. There is more to this poem than meets the eye, and it leaves you

Spotlight

lost causes.

245Comments
Artist // Student // Photography
  • United States
  • Deviant for 11 years
  • She / Her
Badges
Super Albino: Llamas are awesome! (222)Super Albino: Llamas are awesome! (222)
My Bio
what's the matter with you lately

Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
margot and the nuclear so & so's
Favourite Writers
squidmeow
Tools of the Trade
a camera, a keyboard
Other Interests
photography, writing

daily deviation!

daily deviation!

dream come true. thanks so much, everyone! :heart:

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ElementalEmilyHobbyist Traditional Artist
Whatever will be will be. The future's not ours to see.
classic-poetHobbyist Writer
Hello there! We're delighted that you're now a member of MacroPoetry! :happybounce: As part of your welcome tour, here's a link to the group's basic rules. :slow: Next, we have the poetry folder if you would like to submit some poetry. :eager: That brings the welcome tour to an end :saddummy: but we'll be eagerly waiting to see more of your work soon! :love:
SynmorHobbyist General Artist
Your gallery is inspirational. Beautiful work.
Th3Chos3nOn3Hobbyist Writer
I miss you momo. :heart:
skullhipsHobbyist Writer
Thank you for the llama! ^-^
darknyess General Artist
moondrumsStudent Photographer
:heart: