legs splash from milky sheets.
she rises from the bed like a wave
and crests, just before bare feet touch wood
and fog crawls across the mirror.
footsteps leave damp prints on the floor.
she sings in muted tendrils that float through
the sun dries her hair with copper fingers.
the shadows bunch beneath her feet
and she tosses them across the sky-
painting clouds over the staring sun.
mile-long legs stretch across the world
makes love to the hand-me-down earth.
her quickened breath becomes the wind
and sails ships across the seven seas.
when the sun grows w
there are stray-cat men who ramble through my bar rooms,
ponytails that drip down their backs
and they wear ink beneath their skin,
blue jeans that are soft and faded, hands
whose callouses rub spots on my tables, and
how many times have i felt the sticky-cold smack of a bandana,
the bristle of an unshaved mouth running rough against my thigh?
there is a certain poetry about the way a hair
sticks to naked skin.
i am weaved between burning legs,
dripping oil and gasoline
we roar like tigers
in a concrete jungle.
the morning after is
heat between my thighs and an empty bed,
shy noseprints on the window and my best
we crash seafoam
when my bones are driftwood,
i dive for pearls in your hair,
lose my breath and realize that
i don't need it;
your sighs suffice to fill my canvas lungs.
our bodies carve castles in the sand.
("you've practiced," you whisper.
"tongues in tidepools have taught you to love.")
the moon swells the waves.
your kneecaps remind me of
your fingertips are hermit crabs
that scuttle on my skin.
(we howl like seaside wolves, and then)
when morning comes i can't help but see the way you
sprawl like yawning waves in the early morning tide.
you are a shipwreck.
between sailor's-knotted sheets
Stream of Consciousness..for now. by Salali-K, journal
Stream of Consciousness..for now.
Figured I'd give this journal thing a try. Hope you enjoy my art (I think it's rather shitty in comparison to most of you but it's more of an anxiety outlet for me) I have anxiety quite horribly..to the point where I bite my nails even when there's none left. Painting seems to help that..the only time I can get my mind to stfu for 5 minutes.
Let's see...I'm a pharm tech. I'm sure you picture me just sitting in a chair counting pills all day. I assure you most pharm techs don't, they run their asses off just to get yelled at. But I found a job where I literally sit there and count pills. It's rather boring. I put in for a