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Furbies are the best way of communication

They called out with their spotted, black voices during my older sister’s funeral:

COME TO US, GIRL, YOU WHO CHERISHED US SO.

As if a neon sign had flickered on in the middle of our sorrow, the stain of our closed faces lifted partway, washed over with terror. They were not supposed to know about my older sister’s death. I could sense their craven fur alert to the faint sound of my sister’s ghost trying to return to them.

The fucking Furbies!

And we couldn’t destroy them, not without risking our own souls, for their great outrage was like that of God.

So they called. And called. The priest fell to his knees, trying to win God over. But we knew. The Furbies knew that grandparents are always far kinder to their grandchildren, spoil them more, love them, and reprimand the parents.

My sister’s ghost, I could feel it, followed their voices. The obsidian song raised her up, up, then turned into a grating, forced laughter.

i cant credit yt hw she qwickens & feles th flesh so simply

whil i cant bring myselfe to tasten mi sineu & veine for fear of finding hem siker

or i heare th partricches clacker & call in their covey & i thinke: thei kno nthing of whats to come & i thinke: thei cannot knw wht i knw umb th bark & lick ofv th guns come automne abt th gruesom roost ofv th butchers wind-eye

O yiet thei ᴄᴀɴ

bodys ǫᴜᴀᴠᴜᴇʀ undr grubbi hegerow-prisouns/ bodies ᴛᴇᴀʀᴇ at each in angger like 2 *s yn orbital decaye/ bodys ᴋɴᴏ th what is comin, yes/ bodyes sʜɪꜰᴠᴇʀ in ful creaunce that theres nothing 4 it but 2 fall/

i mean whats th complexioun ofv this ocupacioun-yn-flæsh ~ s/ure, i shld eten more carefullie sure, i shld spreden more sun-tan creem sure, i shld nedelinge don mor labour sure, i shld nt fyllen mi cuppe so so 2kepen this bodiȝ livinde lenger

O yiet

sauf memorie spek me

#poetry #spilled ink #free verse

something about age

naked branches but budded and blossomed speak of easter

the belly of a murderous cat might be golden but this is nothing like lick and pulse

the honey locust out my bedroom window when i was little was something else too, that gnashy hopefulness, that bawling up!

no this is not the spring i’ve known

the bodies of most people born are yellow as sand, most bodies are black as sand, most white as sand

most people born are ghosts-stand-aimlessly, no motivation for haunt

the tongue might go yellow if dried so these drapes, bright dyes, ceramic paints

most people, i mean, have lived, perfect aspect

one speck of sicky life and chatter in a universe of dead, yet this is the choice for subject-matter?

but then organs orbit too, are pistons

but then the sky is brilliant only while the eye longs to oxygen

#poetry #ekphrasis #spilled ink

like afternoons are only fair in imitation of evenings, the light lapped from the room, the wall of the house opposite pink with the going sky. in 1962 the editors of the survey of english dialects noted that they must confirm the existence of evening these quiet molars-in-the-day being then something-j-just-found, roots still bloody and mostly submerged in all our mouths un unready to be used. and like i woke this morning with my brain-stem s s singing/ something silent and honed now cresting in me i do mean a physical sensation and and in my therapist’s office d dappled and dark with summer i was obdurate-more-than -then-usual, teary, quite unwilling to a a allow any c c coming years.

#poetry #free verse #creative writing #original writing #poem #spilled ink

awakin in th pool of dusk + yes maintaines th ambiguitie: drinke 2 try t drive th dark away or drinke 2 drive away in2 th dark ~ thees

are nt mutuallie xclusiv choises / trye to xist @ th base ofv your skulle, wher braine-meats-spine, hatchin beensproute-egg, this ys where t feel th live ofv declivety , this

ys how 4to grow an iw tre yn a fizzie bodie yn a palid glebe, yn th erþ utside my window yn an ugly mess ~ tresses-ofv-hair as Cartographie, ~ endliss dis-coverie ofv hawk & loom that is , this ys how 4to grow an yew tre yn an bodie-lookin-down yn an homewarde walk undr streetlampes + so knouwin th cluttery-mirror ofv th ribs, wrappin th cendal stricte round th budes-ofv-brestes, asc is bein hot 4 urself th same thing as bein feared ofv evri passin man asc is wakin up alweys th same as puttin a hole in a pair of tights/ yn body built ofv earth, i mean, asc ys ther any waye tb sure of stayin

constante to being drought or spring

#poetry #free verse #spilled ink

handes shake in doctors chaumber, myn langage narrwh ~ hard-2-hear

so i must reherse myselfe/ brec out sweatin @ needles.

sunne bloats/ excerpts th white strete! im jst mazye, summrs pawn.

#sijo #original poetry #creative writing #spilled ink #original writing #poem #poetry

i’ve been trying to convince myself that i’m racked w/uncertainty because only a lunatic could ever expect

to be so sure giddy w/th skipp descent run o-so-lightli like Xing a swimming-pool filled w/custard:

she’s angular, body like an ivory dessert fork body like the bough of a holm oak body like the i of desire ~ scalped 2 shin-bone on th page but o so rupturous diphthong in th mouth to

be so sure i colour up @ th slightest word arms stretchh elbows 2gether as if t bcome 2d,

to be so sure i kno there’s no reasoning ~ w/e it was ppl want from words, im full of it/ overflowing-but-undrinkable/ pale rosé thts style-over-substnce, no no1 rmmbrs a thing nxt day—and s t i l l

to be so sure & it hits me listn to voiced breaths & b unabl to categorise them yes these are tears but yes this is th rapture of laughing teeth

#poetry #free verse #spilled ink

niȝht out & then i do literali nthing alle daie

affection ys wht i’m abt + i gess i’m voide ofv it.

@ th bck ofv th class i kept

blu—th whch ys t say alle burny sky\ tipped-bk-on-my-chaiere\

dizzy w/th secrete- grin, th

head-in-a-booc ~ i.e. substaunciali nevr heer-whre-theres-ppl... fck

i’m so envious nw. is ths cotidian fievere

it? ys ths rly me-4-th-time-bein, me-4

-months ~ awashe yn sweate n my hands flutter ~ suure

of no-thing but, yeh, hyperaware ofv th puke-taste. every thinge ys

right (in th silnt parlour), every thinge ys ringin (in mornin drift), every thinge ds

sing onthil my veri skin, its odieux stubel can

slap+clam-up w/th sunne/ o: snow’s so long gonne, o:

speake 4 me Winttor pls, jst still mee/ rid me ofv this

summr-yn-sloth, ths blosmin -sun-uppe-ofv-daies. in

th lyttl gostli observacion-roome/ they stare yn @ th windeyes ~

throat-w/-parfict-brest-bone ~ ths-e figures i feele nthng 4. i praie

tht i’m just waitin 2 a-wake.

whelp, ofc this is where i end up. window w/fireworkes @ an odd angl. me

w/o th handes 4 settin flame.

#poetry #free verse #creative writing #spilled ink

9mnths

existing in the inbetweens exhausting yeh but also smthng like lightning/ flesh-song ofv swept n moving

in th drunk nite since im livin precisely in the moment im afraid of: the dance floor, th

talkin to strangrs ~ distended moment-of-read when she looks me up

and down, fumbls pronouns n still somehow stays charming. all evning cant

take my eyes off this woman her hair like partridges flyin up in a burst.

whats the differens betwx wantin someones bodi n wantin to b

someones bodi, like yes cant think of anythin more relaxin than jst being

these limbs w/her brain taking control bt also, i guess, hot, insofar as thats a thing i kno wht it means.

weddings w/2mch free food n my belly pressin against th waistband of my dress lk

treefungus tht splits itslf as it grows 2 fast and is a diffrent colour

on th inside. sirens pass in th distans—no, i cant liv in2

such emergencies frm this bodi-tht-wont-die, body-tht-will-die-1day ~

we spend all evening talking and my lips r blue frm saying anything at all.

#poetry #free verse #spilled ink

hs prtie

o 2 feel warme whch ys buzzd & skin-onne -skin we cnt stop overlappin! ~ strecche

communeli ~

yes 5 glses ofv wine is th tricke. thse fumous pottes & hedi. hme is sick-t-my-stomach, ys th upswinge. we

talke

future, talk this aftrnoon/ tlking nxt weeke is fake tlk & j o i u s. on leavin, hug 2 close so i can feele a shape ofv him

thru

clothes, whch is obv inaprop. yes but allso o b o d i e s ~cors ~bodeȝs geinst bodis ~how

sickliȝ

th corps & how LITE t b jst flesch tht wows w/th overlap ~ tht quyetli shaakes yn harmonie. imean a

hous

ofv ppl hous ful ofv alcohols th o-so-neededd praȝyer: girll—ipray me—pls beleeve everithing thats sed

pls

take evri wash & climb thts handed u, tht rýkr rok pls b shameless, pls unliv these

last

last 2 decades/ pls b th fuck shameless & asken 4 ur bodiȝ frm evri1 u meete

#poetry #free verse #spilled ink

we cacche 2 weepinge \ schrikinge btwix our teethe yn þ toom bar

slike were mad war-wulves/ gostli/ laughe ourselfes out / were spendede

why ys it we 2 skinni strais kan comforte eȝther in other

#poetry #sijo #spilled ink

sunne demaunds i pick up slabs ofv meet ~ thees handes blodiȝe w/thm hw to w a k e ys hw to hulke around this drift, this heviȝ trunke in fat-&-bone hw to wake is no tricke @all but nor what it seemes hw to wake is hw t b doglike, spinnin, woke-&-pant! whch is t saiy deceyuable.

wine to make th wrld fals. follwe linkes-in-linkes on twitter 2 maken th wrld fals. @ random ppl, c if thei speeke back t make th wrld fals. u sit me dwn, C o n v e r s a t i o n A b t O u r R e l a c i o u n s h i p e t make the world fals. voyces in th street utside t mk th wrld dessayvable. gnattes bundel arnd each othr t make th wrld fals. swicche email accounts t make th wrld fals. mark evriþing as red t make th wrld deceyvable. make th same phonecalle 2ce t make th wrld fals. a pill t make th wrld fals. frend goes nonverbl, i brethless fill th silens & make th wrld fals. dnt move frm th chair 4 6 hrs so th wrld gets fals. dnt move fr 6 ours. dnt move. ȝif u

speeke lng enuf ul get maiziȝ. speeke lng enuf ul bare evryþng u wishe ud nevr, speeke intil u finde th pitiȝ-scowl, th this-is-frendshipp-i-gess, th looke. speeke lng enuf is like pullin the bloodiȝ line til @last th findin ~ th getting th redding hooke, u feel me?

#poetry #spilled ink #original writing #free verse

wht kynd ofv an dame wld knowin delve so deepe as þis wht kynd ofv an maide wld wht beast wld graven— þ mounds lye in mi wake like as pimples aftr th razor! like th dimpling round an old church hir once-congregacioun hir igatherung-undr-erthe wht kynd ofv an maide wht beaste obliquite...

i ask u

do i slaunder th word womman in restoring this bodi so? ȝif i impe this tung in2 a wommans mouthe does tht make me fickle?— meanild grucchild jangleresse rikelot doude leiȝster conciounatrix —ȝif i plaunt seeds jn this white feeld— slutte strumpet callot wicch slovenin—

i come bk t myselfe after a spel, liv upon ground a while, look about me.

dyd i rejoisen this graveyard ~ cimatorie ofv want/ desyre sum parfit desire / desire t noht b empti ofv desire—

kynd-ofv-a-girl givs birthe to boxen, dsnt norish thm at all. im sayin

wht harvist cn u xpect frm grinded whyte bone, no fecound erth has this shape/ cunte-betten boi, unwomanli, domb ~ this ys how 2 plaunt a seede & make a bodi nvr milche ~ this ys how t plaunt a seede & nvr ispeden watchful eiȝes\ wet thighes\ schame shame bear th word defouler & nvr Open a mouthe ~ im sayin ths is how 2 plaunt a seede & make a bodiȝ

#poetry #original poetry #free verse #creative writing #spilled ink

ballooning w/spiced pumpkin, hot cauliflower, sticky rice,

and yet full isn’t always enough ~ isn’t ever enough:

modern flesh craves glorious nought: sugar, booze, and endless sleep.

#sijo #creative writing #original writing #spilled ink #original poetry #original poem #poem #poetry

what could give some sense of place when you tell me i love you

i’m going to stick with you, house made votive ~ offer us up.

i’m a deer off watching us: startle-ready, empty-O.

#poetry #original poetry #original writing #spilled ink #poem #creative writing #original poem #sijo

my teeth sing the iron song of too-much-sugar\ and it’s the hour of little no ~ lamp-shade like hands in prayer reflected back in stipple of old glass is the white-gold ostentation, the swoop gone out of day/ flourish in slate night all turned her back me this heady state’s the waiting to feel hook-in-my-cheek, sting, be drawn to bed. and like earlier or below-and-the-canyon ~ sun barrelling me what’s/ the skin’s clamour-for-sunburn or eyes-for-awkwardness four of us stood in the kitchen and my chest going blocky that’s the fragmented down\ comeuppance for drinking in the afternoon and no-one speaks in sentences when there’s no planets to be seen | animals ceilinged that can’t open up a jar and find some mouthy light, i’m perplex ~ which is to say tan gled up: how can a person be in three places at a time!! why does a radiator keep existing, dank box of water n e v e r lets in light what’s to stop \ here’s the number of mg, you gget\ and she\ and i’d rather be sequestered than desolate/ ostracised than left/ isolated than tree-multiplies\ mangrove swamp and you ’re unsure anyone’s age at all/ ~ i mean how could so many hot jets of red oh have pumped around one table and we’d we’d come from roses ~ sure we’d come in, the garden still getting the air\ four bodies each asking how a hailstone can exist in all transparency of lift, four bodies forgetting in our secret-not-secret penance we’d come from the rose-garden: sure, something trained / the flutter intended/ set circle in pout and eyelid and yet and yet the swoony knock when approaching of the breath: what’s left, you see.

#poetry #spilled ink #original poetry #creative writing #original poem #poem #original writing

I jump up and am dizzy—day says this is meet. Wish to be sleepy, drunk, ravenous—i.e. be meat.

Lit kitchen windows align from back gardens where figures-in-windows mirror each other, never to meet.

Slipping on the stairs and the image of myself at the bottom, broken meat.

Read dead poets til they sit like friends, read live poets til they sit like friends although you’ll never meet.

The kitchen cloys sausage fat; lines in palms fatten up with the smell of meat.

Some nights, solitude shouts for itself—who could countenance the overflow, raucus meets?

Memorise anatomy textbooks but I still can’t look past friends’ faces, see just meat.

Lover’s skin as sunlamp. Skin like words that move beyond form.

Lover’s body as my body, tired lakebed. My body as less-than-air, less-than-meat.

Seems just as hard to see future friends in faces just met

as to bypass flagging memory, see in friends’ faces the people I first met.

Dusk of bright sun this season and figures walk to bars in the street. I can’t imagine anyone’s lips meeting.

#edited poem from a few years ago #ghazal #poetry #original poetry #original poem #poem #creative writing #spilled ink

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