madysen moreno @madxsen - Tumblr Blog

Suddenly things became as obvious as an ink spill on paper.

A giant black blob of a ruinous mess, one that you kept contained for so long, one that you used minimally to make things complete.

The paper was ruined. Toiled over for years, rewritten, revised, and finally, there was something to work with. It was a masterpiece, and it had taken so long to form.

A mere accident tipped over the entire bottle, a slip-up.

Who uses ink from a bottle, anyway? Was it with a pen or a quill, does that even matter? It’s much more tedious to use a pen and ink compared to a modern pen, with its ink so certainly contained. Ballpoint or ink, modern pens only leak when they’re broken, and it’s easy to keep them intact. A pen and ink, however, is apt to spill eventually, and if it doesn’t, it causes a mess when it drops or smears or leaks on places it shouldn’t.

It’s common knowledge, but some still prefer it. The romantics and nostalgics know it. They want those spills though, they want those eccentric marks, they want the challenge until the challenge defeats them.

One slip-up on my accord, one accident on yours, one talk together, and one end. It was simple, and it was clear. The ink had spilled all over us and suddenly our eyes couldn’t see through the darkness. It was just painless ink. It was straightforward, but we neglected to consider the complexity of its substance, we ignored the parts that were toxic and unsafe.

No cleaner could salvage our stained clothes, so we just threw them away.

— Madysen Moreno

#poetry #literature #writing #poem #poetic #poet #writer #prose poetry #prose #poets on tumblr

Tried and true i sit wasting away another year.

The air is colder this season, the sky’s blue duller.

There isn’t a want for anything anymore, so much as a

need.

Water has a taste that’s stronger now, and a smell not so faint;

rain can’t replenish the empty glass bottles

lined up side by side on the table’s edge.

Music is muffled as crowds pass by

and eye to eye they’ll stare, but the right foot shows what god knows, kicking in the water they’re tempted to share.

Long hair falls back as a head rests itself

on the artificial marble floor,

puddles expand as the dark sways forth

like the shadows of a rocking tree.

No one wants the water now that the sky’s blue has gotten colder and the room has gotten older.

The people forget their wants and move on from their needs.

—madysen moreno

I’ve always liked classical music. It fits any mood. I particularly enjoy its background presence on the nights when the rain falls grey and my mind disassociates from the everyday room. It is on those occasions when the music would narrate the story and I would play its roles. The forlorn lover, the eager woman, the dismal child; each having its own shard of helplessness to hold. Other nights it’d strike a note like the eye contact you make in passing with someone you know just enough, enough to make you reminisce on the peculiar hours you had shared. I have also learned through these symphonies it is best to assume the worst; the delicate strings section will always emulsify under the reckless heed of brass, like men weeping in black and white, fueled by a melancholic fury. The sobs that impede a woman’s, the sob that cries, “a great wrong has occurred!”. Great wrongs occurring stress me out, great wrongs occur in classical music, and classical music occurs in my head and my heart. I actually don’t like classical music at all; it makes me sad.

Madysen Moreno

We are who we should not be; the people of the night, awry and forlorn, trapped inside of something disguised. We are the people who should not be; with hands palm down on glass, battling atoms for cold and warmth. Jumping in the night to distant piano solos, brought to us on a breeze too hot for a January evening, we wrap ourselves within the sky’s blanket and make love with the light speckling stars, all to burn out.

—Madysen Moreno

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When one is flying in a plane while the night is alive, looking out of the window does the darkness no justice. The most visible thing is the paint streak glare of scattered reading lights throughout the cabin, a mirror reflection of the seats in the row above. Merely lifting the cover allows the atmosphere’s cold air to radiate inside. It’s uncomfortable, seeing one's own sleep deprived reflection, featuring eyes sewn with red thread, and an almost visible smell emanating from a body that has sat in recycled air far too long. Staring makes one crazy, taking to calling the stewardess for help, yet, by the time she reaches the scene, all is forgotten, a glass of hot water is ordered instead. But one is tempted to look again, far enough from the pane to create a necessary distance, but close enough to see the same alarming figure, now accompanied by rising steam curling like fresh smoke. Moments pass, a stare down fills the time, the urge to call the stewardess back, with a bat, to bash in the creature on the wing floods the mind. But if one puts their cheek onto the mimicking thing, and focuses wandering eyes onto nothing, the reflection scatters like a flock of birds threatened by a thrown stone. The stars, they arrive, hung by the imagination, or by unimpressed God, and, if one focuses enough, they’ll notice a metal wing, and perhaps ponder the sensation of being out upon it, that high in the sky, hanging from a string like a star among flashes of electrical light, experiencing the cold of the wind, perfect skin turning black and falling off (for the temperature is past the requisite to preserve life), so with a ragged smile, comparable to that on a hermit crawling out of his cave and into the sun, one bears their teeth and one by one they drop, canine and molar alike, until only pink gums and charred lips remain on a featureless face.

One may, at this point, wish they had never put their cheek to the glass or lifted the cover, but none may decide what is best for another human’s experience.

—Madysen Moreno

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With a cup of lukewarm-lemon-water, I sat at the edge of my white bed, reminded of something skinny or something fat, something like my dog, something like you, a residual image of your old car that you drove onto the dewy summer grass with the thrill of being sued because you'd decided to trespass, and your hand on my leg while I sat and sang in the passenger seat, two hands over two hearts like a reflex in a crash, and even now we could outstretch our arms and cross the continents, cross the wide, grey sea, cross the divide obstructing you from me but I lay back onto my bed, setting my cold drink down, and roll onto my side with freezing feet tucked under three blankets and next to my thighs.

Madysen Moreno

he was born jaundice. a little yellow fellow, limp in the eyes and weak in the legs, he held a prophet’s gaze and said, “hey man, the world?” and then stopped. the earth rotated on its axis once, and order was restored. the people (excluding the jaundice boy) continued courting their husbands and wives, making children, and dying their dies, but the jaundice boy could not stand. he reached and touched the prophet’s hand and said, “hey man, the world, what’s this?” and his arm dropped. the earth rotated twice on its axis and reversed once. a step forward for mankind, a step back for amarillo, but at least he had pride, or as far as he may know. his arm was blue now and it slept under his head. he looks grey now; old, dumb, and dead. but the jaundice boy was now a jaundice man and to him, every man was a can that didn’t even deserve to be recycled. throw that tin in the trash

Madysen Moreno

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“I didn’t know one could hurt so badly. There is a chair trying to support three hundred pounds while missing a leg. The chair is metal, too. Enduring the havoc of a storm, perhaps it is set in a field of wheat and barley. Thunder and lightning, booming, flashing. It was struck by lighting, too. That three hundred pound box atop it set aflame, and with each passing minute pounds were passed onto nothing, or something, but became no more than ash in air. It burnt until it was nothing more than a relief, but a brief one at that, it had been placed on that chair in a precise position, distributing its weight so the chair remained upright, a godsent paperweight. When it was gone, the missing leg regained its significance and the chair fell in end. i didn’t forget my sorrow, but for a moment it disappeared since i was writing so deeply about a chair and it’s unmanageable affairs.”

—Madysen Moreno

we eat we drink we share the bed he scratches his head i get up to go to the restroom looking myself in the face there’s an unfamiliar freckle a new sunspot, skin cancer hair wrapped in coils smelling like burnt wood and nails each looking as ratchety as overused candle wicks we eat we drink i scratch my head he leaves the bed and he never comes back so i lay down, relieved, i am liberated free but still a nuisance like dandruff in the air afloat from someone combing someone’s hair though as soon as it’s spotted, it’s lost to the sun rays beaming in through a ramshackle window i eat, i drink, i lay in bed i get up to go to the restroom there are seven light bulbs above the mirror placed like gods to watch over me and my sins only three are glistering there had been four yesterday

Madysen Moreno

“i cannot tell whether i am hearing footsteps or my pulse

there is a loud, familiar thumping in my ear

i cannot feel my chest, a tree's trunk cut in half

spiders in the corner, now crawling on my head

there is a fear pulling me to irrational poles

a complex being, i am

to be so advanced, to be so intelligent

though emotion remains the heir of life

intangible, immeasurable,

a cruel will to be signed, an inheritance so grand

to step away from this tyranny i close my eyes

but as lid touches lash it burns and stings

let me alone, give it a rest!

what an emperor it is, what a majesty!”

—Madysen Moreno

#poetry #writing #literature #poem #poetic #poet #writer #poets on tumblr #prose poetry #prose #excerpt from a book i'll never write #stream of conscious writing #stream of thought #poettess #poets #publishme #publish #publishing

“Whilst looking back i wished i took more photos of the gnats, of the flowers, and of the trees, but now i let my tired eyes rest upon the flesh, upon the bones, upon the myriad of human tactic. Today is the day i’ve began longing to be you, to appreciate the feeling of my bones creeping underneath your skin, to have sunken cheeks as you do. Though now i let my tired body feign on the bed, and that’s it.

That’s the end: a simple memoir of longing for a better illusion, or in the least, a better ability to stage one.”

—Madysen Moreno

#poetry #writing #literature #poem #poetic #poet #writer #poets on tumblr #prose poetry #prose #stream of conscious writing #excerpt from a book i'll never write #poetsofinstagram #poettess #publish #publishme #publishing

White fences about laundromats remain to be the epitome of inadvertent American prostitution; pretty birds perched on them with long brown hair and sad eyes, vultures swooping and scowling around them with wings so battered they should stymie any ability to hunt. Pretty birds with long brown hair only perch on the white fences when they can, lest they attract instigators who caw according to the display of today’s feathers and rip their talons through their manes. Pretty birds with long brown hair cut it to be short, to look like bees who dig into sand for warmth and protection, and twitter while dressing themselves in freshly laundered clothes, which are warm but crumble as easily as the hay homes blown down by big bad wolves. Big bad wolves nip and froth at the mouth for pretty little birds, pretty little birds with warm clothes and short brown hair. The wolves jump and jeer, so the birds fly low and try to blend with the brush. Brown hair and bland feathers work best near mud, but bright beaks painted red, orange, and yellow burn too much like fire, and fire spreads generously near dry terra firma. Thus, pretty little birds with short brown hair and cold clothes slather their radiant beaks in mud. The big bad wolves go chasing butterflies now. Lie low, it’s safe here in the muddy down-below, pretty little birds verse, the vultures can’t snap wings wolves don’t see thee glisten in air be wary of black and yellow rings though you’ve escaped the latter, beware the snake’s stealthy slither brings a torrential rain of red your pretty pinions wither then thou art dead

Madysen Moreno

Everything was white and clean and fresh and new and she felt like she had power, she was reborn into the arms of an angel with satin hair and velvet lips, teeth full of pearls and hands that could do no wrong. Though through those hands she inadvertently slipped like sand in a sieve, but, unlike sand, she was forced through that strainer and became the sediment of a once prominent promontory. Belittled and berated she sat in her pile of dust waiting to be blown away by the wind from an angel’s wings, which promised no mercy, and silently, she sat and wept in wait, surrounded by the picturesque bodies of those beaten before her. The limelight was subdued and the piano chords rang low, all that anyone ever knew became powder shimmering in a single ray of sun.

Madysen Moreno

If you say that your heart hadn’t broken in sync with mine when your grip around my sweatshirt tightened, you’d be lying. Seams, however, are far more durable than heartstrings, and what damage was done to my vital, pumping, organ cannot be discernible through the appearance of the eldest child's clothing. Don’t go back. Do not go back. stop scratching at It. Drudged walk back up the stairs, limp and aloof, dead like a zombie; animate, but lacking purpose. Shut the door behind you and the music will drown everything out for you, the bombs are never louder than the bass, and even if one dropped close enough for you to hear it, you’d only lose a limb. Can You Lend Me Support? The Yearly Marker Is Approaching. I make music behind closed doors by plucking the hairs on my head, all dastardly and angelic, comparable to many different aspects of life, prettier aspects of life. Hit Me. Focusing on the finer things in life allows one to live in an intangible, preconceived American-Dream, but nonetheless, a dream; for the flesh is much finer when accessorized with the glimmer of a purple haze. A purple haze is on the marble, someone spilled the wine. We Had Spilled The Wine And Now Palms and Cotton Are Stained.

Madysen Moreno, We Had Spilled The Wine And Now Palms And Cotton Are Stained

Weep, if all you can do is weep. And as you weep, she will stand, as still as stone, stuck in a time and place that is unique to her own needs. She craves a warmth that she hasn't experienced, a closeness like one gloved hand holding another, just enough to transfer heat, not enough for true vulnerability. You see, a thin sheet of latex is all that's needed to separate flesh from combining; a lame boundary between two beings, one of which who so desperately wants something, the other who remains wanting little to nothing.

Madysen Moreno

take the medicine coffee take the medicine coffee take the medicine but today i had some tea i actually met someone out for brunch his name was jack and he was made of yarn he had some coffee and spilled all over himself dropped the cup straight onto his lap it bounced off and shattered everywhere he hadn’t slept much last night or the past four his face was an avocado green and wore a forlorn look after the drop he was clearly disturbed for deeper reasons mothers never get rid of the gifts from their children even if it has seeped through the plastic and deteriorated wholly, reeks like acid with a purple hue sometimes green mama’s always got mercy

Madysen Moreno

Sitting in that corner of darkness I saw the way the bridge of your nose reflected the light from the traffic signs. It was a stop and go sort of situation; the light running laps around your head then sitting on your nose to catch a breath. The light never touched my face, nor did it touch my hands or feet, it was all on you, and I found it peculiar. The light was always on me, that's where others perceived it to be, but you were no longer like the others around me. You were an old friend born again, reincarnated into a stranger, so much so that I didn't know what to say as we sat riding along the road, I didn't even know if we were on a road, I don't know much of anything anymore. It was foggy that night, that's why I couldn't tell where the road ended. The fog caught the headlights in the palm of its hand and shoved it into a lint-filled back pocket. I maneuver in dimly lit places now, it's constantly foggy in my head.

Madysen Moreno

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