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went on a dancing spree with a. last night; the pastel-coloured haze of a dream better than any strobo light stroking our mouths / it's impossible to stumble if you're not aware of having to move on two feet in this life, she says; they're never needed when we're floating outside of time anyway or maybe i don't remember it right //

these days, the heat never gathers in the right places of the body anymore: something something about shadow pain in the left elbow being a sign of a wrong turn at the corners; only my knees turn cold in the bathtub and it either means that i've grown out of blank places to hide or found the rest of my legs somewhere along the road //

less travelled my body becomes a maze (with cut corners?) and the song is still playing in the room next door; so i try to stick my fingers through the gap underneath the door just to catch a taste of something bright.

#poetry #the blue queue #literature #fragments #stream of words

i have no memories of the day after (except for the sugar-thick sound of something dripping - down, i guess: a bag of blood swaying above my body;) nothing but the lack of pain fading slowly until someone asks me whether i want to try and stand up again instead of my name and i guess they're not playing the long game.

dosenherz, artificial silence (post-cancer meditations)

#lit #poetry #warm-up musings #post-cancer meditations #queue #all work and no rest stole my words

i lost a hold of all my messes; distraught by the idea of having to mend myself again i scatter my thoughts all over the kitchen table; g. finds sticky notes in his hair in the mornings and leaves me pieces of his silence which i cannot bear to gather closer in case the body remains unable to contain itself;

dosenherz, when forgetting dates becomes worse than forgetting names again (post-cancer meditations)

#the blue queue #literature #prose poetry #post cancer meditations

a secret re-told through a.'s last unwritten poem: maybe they confuse small smiles with proper small-talk because they weren't raised to be nice to every other stranger that wants to touch the air bristling above their skin? swallow!, my mother said, this has no place right now right here and while the cuts have long gone dry, my ribcage is rattled by ghosts pressing their tiny hands against walls that keep closing in and today the breathing is getting impossible and so is living only partly left alive.

dosenherz, perspectives on deception (post-cancer meditations)

#lit #poetry #post-cancer meditations #writing #the blue queue #prose poetry #fragments

verrlorenpoet

APERTURE

soracities

Emily Skaja, from "I Liked Myself Better as an Exquisite Skeleton", pub. The Offing [ID'd]

fantodsdhrit

called out to your echo's echo

peering as a starling's eye the dusk shimmied mad with

your name

unfettered at least in thought —

the vault never had avalokiteshwara's thousand arms nor

his thousand eyes

strangers in their mockery uproot every mild melancholic tide

the faces of some

promises

more than expected fathers

while some lesser endured as absence

maldarchive

I AM SLICING THROUGH THIS THICK SLAB OF TIME. ALL EYES ON YOU. GOD PUT ME AT THE CENTER AND THEN BLEW ME A KISS. I WAS CHEATED AND NEVER RECOVERED FROM IT. I AM RETURNING TO SOMETHING THAT "NO LONGER EXISTS" IS WHAT THEY SAY BUT I DON'T BELIEVE ANYONE. ON THE ROAD I AM GIVEN IMPORTANT INSTRUCTIONS. TWO MOUTHS TO SUCKLE ON YOUR TWO EYES. I AM ACCEPTING ALL TRESPASSES INTO THE HEART OF MANIA. I AM UNTANGLING GRIEF FROM RESENTMENT. I AM PASTING THE PEEL BACK ON THE FRUIT, I NO LONGER WANT IT, NOT THE PITH NOR ITS FLICKERING. A KISS CAN PUT OUT EVERY CANDLE

#heart of my heart #grief and resentment and whatever the want wants #the blue queue

feral-ballad

Carrie Fountain, from Burn Lake; “Summer Practice”

#the blue queue

i continued to kill every other thing good about me: whatever kept sprouting through the cracks in blank facades worn to work until the mind became a background humming / the water finds a way, they say, but extended periods of absence of rain leave the body dried to a paper hull, colours flattened into what could have been lush memories turned mold & leaves; burns reminiscing a day in spring where the earth sung underneath torched winter skin.

#fragments #literature #creative writing #the blue queue #post-cancer meditation fragments

feral-ballad

Carrie Fountain, from Burn Lake; “Burn Lake 4”

are flat tires considered to be roadkill?

i dream of the body as a field burning; mother asks me about the seeds again (stuck between my teeth) (scattered on the bathroom tiles) while her hands cradle thin air stretching between her smile and the absences of mine; stillborn memories return to ghosts, i suppose; undisturbed by society and other diseases, women cycle through periods of life almost forming approximately 451.3 times (according to a study that measured the proper amount of bleedings) / in case of disasters, you'll likely reach no-number-available (how to treat a wound that tears into itself with sutures on the surface in the first place?); as with all things discarded on a road.

#fragments #creative writing #post-cancer meditations #poetry #literature #the blue queue

litbowl

From Hanif Abdurraqib's book, The Crown Ain't Worth Much. (Button Poetry, 2016).

i sit with the blue

until the sky cracks me open:

the yellow of a life slipping through my fingers;

then and again

shelling what i could not care to become:

bright but dead leaves on a winter's field.

#literature poetry #stream of conscious #fragments #writing #the blue queue

the mother of a stranger bought us and rows of baby shoes, worn once or not at all; sent off we became neatly tucked presents miles high above the ocean stretching thinner; a distance like a gaping wound.

dosenherz, my friend is a borrowed child

#lit #poetry #warm-up musings #queue

on saturday, i remembered the light moving through your eyes at the dawn of another year starting too bright:

you keep walking towards a quiet shore that never not faces me in this memory as if she knows that i'm the only one praying with a mouth closed around burns from the night before (again): later you'll know the difference between the words 'lonely' and 'alone' not from memorizing the dictionary or watching her smile but touching your own blood instead;

those large hands of yours slipping off a wound given by a friend that kisses like you do before the end of the beginning or whatever it was that you started back then.

#lit #poetry #warm-up musings #all work and no nothing killed my words #creative writing #the blue queue

still shrinking into the four walls of this room where i haven't made the bed in days; i crawl outwards of my body through the soles of my feet, dangling on a thread of fleeting thoughts; watching the moon never really leaving the sky from a distance like the half of a ghost i had become while turning memories as if they were but cards on a table set by another mouth that hungered for the hurt that stems from the backside of a lover moving; inches closed to touch.

dosenherz, metaphors for the heart iv.

#poetry #lit #the blue queue

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