Year II - Issue XVIII
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flotsamwe crash seafoam:thumb334325895:
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
we sweat the ocean,
you, a siren,
i, odysseus chained.
The Concept of PerspectiveI unfurl with lavender,
wild and stretching possibilities
within velvet serenity.
I sway joyously with conducting trees
and fall with musical, tumbling leaves,
and for once,
time does not govern
I change like the seasons,
no complicated reason...
just that I do;
it is as they always say:
some things, they never change.
Dear Teen Ruby RoseDear Ruby,:thumb333932738:
I know you hate me calling you that. I know you'd rather I use one of the millions of aliases you've buried yourself under over the years, the way you used to hide under pillows or disappear into piles of leaves, or cover yourself in snow while the other kids made snow angels (because you didn't have wings - you're the abominable snowman).
You're still that little girl, as much as you disguise it - the only difference is that now you're hiding in words and clothes. I know what you're doing with all of that lace and the skirts and PVC. The way you wear provocative clothing so that people look at you and judge you by the threads, so you can always tell yourself that if they hate you, it's not you, it's just the clothes instead (you're not a coat-hanger or a mannequin, babe. You don't have to be afraid).
One day, you won't feel like you have to be someone else, or hide who you are. One day you won't whisper those nicknames over and over again to yourself like a mantra or some
The RefugeeI am stained the scent of mandarin
a skinned raw lumpen,
stripped to drifting bone and sea salt
leaking marrow and fear by equal measure,
human only by
some undiscovered innerness,
and all around the Alto's stern
is midnight's shaking water,
void of path and light,
it laps the boat like viscous oil,
stains the wood two eras of blood,
written by the dogma flags
of poverty and hope.
The Captain laughs,
tonight, we escoria are guided by stars,
so let them burn bright,
and I will stand the bow
tonight, a beacon, and hold
my companions tighter than
my Cuba held me,
clutching at my smokes and fraying
And when I arrive to your stars
and to your stripes,
do not be waiting, I beg,
let me slip into your room unseen,
let us never meet,
- and be us forever strangers,
and the infinite space
between all souls
keep us free.
PTSD FashionStark colors from a psychotic decorator's mind
Drape ore shadows, cover skeletons that have never piece of any mind
Memories cut across the bias, yet pull at the hem
Causing material straining as a mind's eye gazes at them
Layer upon layer, each darker or more mottled than the other
Stack up to create a series of styles, Kruger as the designer's consulting brother
Worn over and over, no ticket to be bought or required
To view these epics of fashion horror that one life's mind has acquired
Down the runway of the sub-conscious they come one by one, terror's confections
Garbed each in its own creation, walking with psychosis's perfection
Eyes that hold blankness and connect with only one buyer
The object of their destination gaze, held prisoner by a fine wire
A wire woven out of self-condemnation, self- degradation and a driven need
To be the first, the last, the only sole critic of the unseen rewards of each dark deed
So I sit, and I watch, with eyes forced open, closing them not a choic
Feeling Autumnthe scent of caramel streams
in the air over burnt pecans
and brown sugar dreams
crystalized into tears held still
and silent like the
sap on a crying maple tree
and the sweet savory smoke
from the pasture no longer there
and the leaves in the barrel
down the street warming the
man's frozen fingers
as they crumble in the glowing heat
to embers lighting his face
the cold air keeps me warm
since I cuddle inside your sweater
that holds in my heat like a comfort
from within me and I catch my moments
in a cloud of breath held aloft in the air
before condensing into beads
of moisture on your skin
BrokenThe lace of my skirt was only as perfect
as the flesh that it covered
my childhood stretched until the woman inside
could be seen, raw and bleeding
He left behind calloused fingerprints
on every seam that he tore
The lace of my skirt is only as perfect
as the attitude I put into every pleat
my fingers burnt flat with blistered scars that left me
negative, flawed and reviled
She left her signature on the stitches, scribbled
with needles and veins
The lace of my skirt will only be as perfect
as the stranger looking in the mirror
SuicidalI once met a boy
His thoughts would swim unendingly
His smile would falter with every thought
He would think only of the worst
Never the good
He would cry even though he didn't want to
But most of all
He would think of ways
to stop the pain
that wasn't even there.
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
CorruptionSoft with crows you sumptuous walk,
stroll dark roads entombed in night.
Stolen souls somnolent ceaseless talk,
black tales wove with cunning sight.
Words crack fractured tears of frost,
bare starved branches silent sway.
Stark leaves by cruel winds tossed,
beneath the heavens clouded grey.
Blood lies crimsoned on the slate,
dead men stirred sup second life.
Servants sweep from Satan's gate,
summoned to your slaking knife.
So the four ride upon your breath
PESTILENCE WAR FAMINE DEATH
ManalaUneasy, I've walked through cold silence
And heard the spirits as they talked,
they sobbed, and chanted, and they hummed-
whispers of their lost existence echoed from beyond.
A shiver running down my spine,
I longed to touch the tombstones-
My soul hanged, bereft of life,
on dead, withering bones.
And thus I lied on the cracked earth
and slept the sleep of ages,
and time that passed then came again.
I found my rest in Manala.
Your WebYour words wrap around me,
like a spider weaving its web,
methodically capturing my attention,
like a sticky spider's thread.
The action is somehow beautiful,
yet deadly all at once,
I'm glad I met you,
I'm glad I had the chance.
The Essence of a Lynxthe ember glow of autumn
touched my hidden spark
flames broke out from fairy circles
dancing in the dark
and then they leapt!
from branch to branch
from tail to whisker, paw to claw
glowing dots down the flaming fur
and just look at all these stripes!
my thoughts purr on as days grow long
of silken fur my quiet song
made of leaves, twigs and clay
pouncing, prowling, endless play
silent whispers out of sight
hidden from the dead of night
sheltered from the coming snow
by waning moons and ember glow
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