Shaye Was Here

This is the monster that sleeps in my head. (All poems are original, unpublished and property of this user.) my personal tumblr: hummusloversunite.tumblr.com

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freckled daisy

she – my moon-marred nocturne indentations on the insides of her mouth hands pressed pink I do not wish to smooth the wrinkles only to curl up inside her laugh lines pluck the mark below her lip keep it inside my kiss grab for her loosely volcanic ash  set still but not stagnant   rumbling 

there is a sadness there it could consume me

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6 word story

your love will come too late

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Hello ! (✿◠‿◠) Once you get this you must share five random facts about yourself then pass this on to your 10 favorite followers.

but Kelsi... fine1. I am a certified deep-sea scuba diver and have swam with sharks (unintentionally) twice. 2. I can't remember anything before I was 12 except that I used to have this reoccurring dream about being an old man at his own funeral and that when I was 6 I wanted to change my middle name to "Thumper" because of Bambi.3.  I have an English degree and have never read Beowulf or most of Shakespeare's works (just Hamlet, Macbeth and his sonnets).

4. Blackberries are my favorite.5. If I could be anything I would want to be a marine biologist and study the deep-sea or a race car driver. 

[coalmag]

Thistle Magazine, The OBSESSION Issue

The OBSESSION issue includes interviews with artists Lindsay Bottos and Shae Detar, an exclusive photoshoot by Elizabeth Foster, writing pieces by June Tang and Daniel Stephensen, an interview with fashion blogger Kiana McCourt, insight on Yves Navarre’s “I Am A Cat,” the art of Henry Darger, films by Sofia Coppola and much, much more!

It’s here! Thistle’s Fall/Obsession issue is ready & waiting for you on Magcloud!

[moderateclimates]

Oh my word, it’s here!! The lovely Thistle magazine is all ready with its Fall issue for you to read. I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed making it. (The digital copy is free, free, free!!)

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I'm in this! 

[fuckyeahshorthairedwomen]

Desireé Dallagiacomo Photo by Kija Lucas New Orleans, LA

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I know her!

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The glass eye swells; I am The Nocturne

The first of many trains, all the goings and goings and goings - your rumpled white shirt, tucked in, wearing polarized lenses even though the only light is neon. A lady asks for a cigarette with her breasts and we walk the labyrinth to your apartment. You tell me I am a city girl - that I could be - that I want to be. It feels like you pet my hair and hold my shoulders, pinching the bones with your thumbs, measuring, giving me your words by the bale-full.

On your stair-less fire escape there is geometrical deadness and metal like the kind wrapped around my fingers. Your across-the-way neighbor yells hello with her bare breasts. You think she speaks Portuguese. She is French. She has sex for money, she tells us so when we are drinking at the bar you gave a name to. I drink from her straw, thinking it would be elegant to touch the lips of Sabrina for free, a sort of thievery. She thinks you are my lover and there is a weightiness there in her words that sounds like spare sorrow and I think Sabrina is also a psychic and that’s what she meant to say instead.

It is I that fills you in the hot breath of the city and it feels like stagnancy. I feel stillborn and blue. You tell me that I have always wondered – that I have been waiting and I wish I’d been born with more arms, arachnidan. Swallowing you back. No one sees us naked on the fire escape in the city-shade of un-darkness. My breasts say I am sorry over and over, but not to you, maybe to Sabrina and I hope she is looking out her dark window, but we both know she is busy getting paid. 

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3.

we were sitting in your bathtub

fully clothed

navy hoodies pulled up over our heads

  the wonky-eyed face of the faucet

judging us

the shampoo bottles

listening closely

  the water glass was too big in my hands

I could fill the whole tub in one swallow.

It wasn’t so big in yours.

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2.

in the bathtub fully clothed

everything is funny

you are a man

i am a girl

  i wonder which eye you are looking through.

  you can look in the mirror.

i cannot. 

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1.

in the bathtub fully clothed

your shower curtain torn

I am all knees

the walls

somewhere between red and orange.

  my finger has stopped bleeding

but I can feel the moving gap of a palm sliced open.

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you said I should never do anything that was not me

1st – an insult

            you don’t know me.

            maybe that is me.

            fuck you.

2nd – a questionable look

everybody else chanting

            grow.

            change.

            bloom. 

digging your fingers into my skin

            stay.

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The New Word

We once spoke of words and their lacking. Clack-clack-clacking of teeth mere mouth meat. There will always be words in-between-words. Now, your mouth fits differently situated around this foreign body [you salivate & gag] teeth clenched around almosts toosoon toosoon toosoon toosoon toosoon tooscared The word might mean ______. The word might mean ______.   We don’t know. I’d say it’s like early morning                         moonlight & happy. Really-fucking-happy. 

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The Opinion

The incense was burning (trying to override the smoke of three-dollar premium tobacco – and what premium anything is only three dollars? I don’t ask.) and we were talking about what we talk about when we talk about opinions. I was shell-shucked and said nugatory. Why? Because I don’t care. Because I don’t think about it. Because I am privileged enough to not think about it. Because that makes me a terrible person. Because that means I can’t talk about things – if I don’t care about them – if other people do. That doesn’t mean you can’t have an opinion. That doesn’t mean you don’t. You were writing an article about it and I was trying not to think about it. I was busy lying on your bed defining “aesthetic experience.” I was busy blending into your black comforter in your clean room (mine had turned to chaos overnight) thinking about how definitions couldn’t really mean anything and if I were to go back and name the animals I would have been a bit more creative. Or maybe not. But you waited. You didn’t say anything. You knew that I had an appreciation for silence, for those who pull back on their own momentum and pause to take a look. You stopped – knowing I would open. 

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Dead Spider

Her arms bent up             twisted

oars.

Drowned

Drowning

Swaddled in the white lie of linen

Eyelids twitch

             twinkle

Self-enfolded

Implosion

Mimicry:

A refolding

Reverse-bloom. Her hands

Smaller-scale versions of her

self

she –

the dead spider

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Lipsticked

I dreamed I was Ben Gibbard and I was pile-drive – pummeling my cock into Zooey’s lipsticked asshole.

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The Other's

I couldn’t sleep that night we slept in your bed instead of mine. It was made for one but I knew I was not the only one to lay in it to lie in it before. We were close tootootoo close. I dreamed without sleeping, I saw children with bulbous brains with cerulean irises, they couldn’t be human. What does it mean to be human? Does it mean that we hold each other by the hollow and shove ourselves down The Other’s throat? Claw at The Other’s ribcage saying, “I will make you free. But it’s only me.” One bone slipping into the space between The Other’s? Pop pop pop. It is only me. Pop pop pop.

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When I Say "Limbs"

I. I mean my arms and legs  and this metaphor for tree branches just creeps its way into the conversation.   or II. I mean tree branches and I see the way they dance reminiscent of my own swaying skeleton. 

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