pluck

writing. from the stomach of a bear

[darlfinch]

Writing Prompts 03:

summer damage

graduation of the rings

lava stone

rimy

mostly? revenge

red resin skull

haste

the boring types of text

green sweven

omg Joann

[darlfinch]

037.

ah, yea. count on rippling fails. on words that are enunciated all the same. on a monotony of poorly lit rooms. you don’t know enough about me yet to decide if i’m a threat or nothin’ special. i know you, mami, you’re a diamond splitter when you know the difference. you’ll bring about a neat end, a good fortune that’s not so much a fortune as it is good. it’s better this way. and i don’t argue with luck. and i’ll take some shit to care less about the things like pain. and i’ll watch the strays of time run through the old tree lines, i’ll watch it smooth down never rocks and can’t ever bones. and maybe i’ll keep fading, but i won’t die.

— darlfinch / streams 037.

[darlfinch]

036.

ever burned chocolate in the microwave?  ever not paid attention to the beginning of the end? i’ve tried to pull the skies to their knees because i wanted to melt them down to something spreadable and thin. disinclined valley slopes that don’t roll for me, they hold me back from what can be seen.  be genuine, be intentional, think about why things are the way they are. i can’t assimilate into a congregation of feelers.  predictable noise, squeaks of molars place-setting for incisors. not hungry, just aching. i killed eight flies today with just my hand. a weapon of soft power. motion-controlled delivery is key. place a palm directly over the cringing mediocrity, gradually pace down and then suddenly —

— darlfinch / streams 036.

[darlfinch]

to protect from the sun

oh god. how she manipulates. how she keeps me coming back to her.

a molten wonder with abraded tongue. scrapes the bridge of noses and shaves the bow of cheekbones. a paleness that lights grass fields at angles magnified, scorches them as flame set to sheet linen. pliant, clumsily dotting eyes, she is featureless, and of this she complains. seizes days by the handful, cradles months in between rays. she unzips her flight jacket to a solar cavity heaving smoke. a non-violent yet innate hinge to time. her memories impress into skin, leave shoulders and arms flecked with this ruin.

i grow thicker skin, i keep within the shade, i perceive her with filters at every opportunity. but whence arises the risk of no longer being missed, the biggest star again sneaks along these of my oft-deserted rifts. thaws the broken need in me. asserts that burning is what i do. not for her, for me.

— darlfinch / writing prompts 02

[darlfinch]

sew the wound

the cross-stitch pattern needles back and forth and over and under the rip in my denim knee. this seems courtesy of a steady hand, the slip and slide of one, blood red thread that tidies what i split. but the edges are still fairly frayed. cut on an unwrapped fence link wire-end, it dragged a gaping mouth that took to yawning across my skin. you and i were fools before repairs could begin. what will catch me next time, when i run again.

— darlfinch / writing prompts 02

[darlfinch]

035.

turned a reddish color, the empty space inside. it’s chilling. her gleed eyes descend upon the earthen pit. hell, here, is acrid and stomach-lined for digestion forthcoming. glint-rolled knives rotate in either hand, she steadies the gullet slope of the unsalvaged, down to the lower gut of wooded ground. where it all culminates in carnage. in antithetical angles, the broken branches extend. the bones of men amongst these, amongst the clinging brush, amongst the rotting leaves, besetting the horned demigod who pants and waits, here, in this halidom arena, and calls itself the moira of all assured men.

— darlfinch / streams 035.

[darlfinch]

034.

lowborn. black chipped grit. how far into the chlorine can i get, before it all goes? i keep begging. the label is blurry. take a break from the feed. write for yourself. words are all made up, so where’s the fault in aligning them in whichever ways and whims you wish. upon. grace. there is no standard of perfection, is there. it’s an expression. a gesture, of oneself. which couldn’t be preconceived. my hunger is the ordained. are you? what you eat? running dry, running rampant, hindsight is a throat that makes itself noticeable. i’m coming to the high end of the climax, of the octave, of this, the song that downpours.

— darlfinch / streams 034.

[darlfinch]

033.

mother sunburn. son of a haunt. leave me and my sock drawer alone.

toughen up, bruh? why stuck in a mood, bruh?  no dude, i don't see you. but i know it's you rattling the spoon in my cereal bowl. i know it's you watching road rage playbacks at three o’clock pre-dawn. and i know it's you crossing ankles over my breaking knee when i zone out in front of the flat screen. no it ain't some nerve-ending angst engendered, not some shit kind'of longing. boy, i still got this sordid okay in my mouth that skims the buds unfair. and you’re the bitch that left it there. 

— darlfinch / streams 033.

[darlfinch]

apple seeds

ordinary april, stunning middle, pearl, i am the bastard-thine, numbly occupied.

it’s like i’m plummeting.

your opening hand exasperatedly yells "echo the lines", as if sameness is the survivor’s way.

that godmyth can’t hold me. a creative should have its fingers in milk, haunt the wild, misadventure, else the seeds rot.

echoes just do no good at all.

blame me when there’s not room for subtlety,  i don't have the eye for what might pass by.

i hadn't asked in love, but if i had, for a world beyond reach, the work of summer and winter, would’ve been taken, eaten whole. 

gotta roll inspiration relatively thin in a drowsy ever, and savor the vine from which it falls.

— darlfinch / writing prompts 02

[darlfinch]

do you miss the spring?

i try not to think about it.

the odds of success seemed good,           but i

lost some things            friends, weight,           time                     dreams.

got busy, and lonesome, hun.           everything to do           none of it what i would be                     doing                     if i could.

i'll be here a few hours.           a couple of things           i need to sort out.

which honors the body and blood?             cravings           they                     pull me, if that's                      the way.

— darlfinch / writing prompts 02

[darlfinch]

032.

arguing, can’t remember if you were. been trying not to ask.

to hell with petals. terrible sweet profanity soft serve me scolding.

i don’t know anything about the stars. i bring the urn and parish cemeteries call me generous.

in that first sneer yeah i’m heading back home. yeah it’s just gonna be a second. grip and gimme that.

— darlfinch / streams 032.

[darlfinch]

ENSHRINE / [in-ˈshrīn]  /  . to enclose in or as if in a shrine; to cherish as sacred.

[darlfinch]

031.

i keep putting myself out there. if i don’t, i get cold. burning myself gets old.

raspberry skin confesses. tar outlasts aloe. 

got a perfect girl i don’t know what to do with. because i got scars all over and they were here first. this is gonna hurt. 

to hold my fire is to be caught changing. out, falling in the slow-boom thunder, to see thee is to be mesmerized, is to give electric chase. 

is there a name for this kind of pain?

— darlfinch / streams 031.

[darlfinch]

the braided girl

she’s  radiating cheek bones star signs for knuckles grinding in the van backseat floral wrists, plaid chest,   canary rib sighs misspelling catch me.

— darlfinch / writing prompts 02

[darlfinch]

the first underground mine

the hardest metal is a woman trapped by loyalties. honest soil and moon rock,  hands held between. by screendoor sieve  edges out gravel and debris. kneads fault lines one hemisphere at a time. she ambitions the earth  unfinished,  intimates the act  of digging,  kindles fine,  chars indurate.

— darlfinch / writing prompts 02

[darlfinch]

“Duality halved the once-boy in two:     did he want to see the shadow fall        over the poet’s face?   Splintering, part of him: no.       Hungrily, part of him: with pleasure, yes.” —  writings on Jason, darlfinch   

[darlfinch]

words are not a comfort to me. they are dog teeth, one at a time dug out of the ventricle whining left in my chest. and a cracked ode to shudder, if the flesh of imagining permits, wonder how first they must have come to it.

(-- darlfinch)