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knifefightscene

no more men

driflloon

pferdestärk : irene guarenas for numero berlin oct. 2018

me, befallen in grace

entangled in lace of everything i knew,

everything i no longer feel on the tip of my palm,

fading. i feel lovers quarrel beneath me, the tender purr of their lips infinitely ringing in my ears.

i don’t know if i’ve ever loved when it is not convenient to me, i don’t know if it is this knowledge that stops me from the mess of love in the first place.

so i set it down, what i once knew, and figure that everything lost that was just of convenience was never meant to be in the first place.

#poetry #prose #writing #musing #spilled ink

my tender heart beating, no rattling, no exploding against its cage.

how long can i be held? i miss the sun in my eyes, or in the eyes of my mother, when i knew without doubt that she loved me.

i feel myself evaporating, and left like hot milk on the breakfast table, a child gone to school, forgotten. too late.

but i think i’d fancy that. quite like it.

my skin hurts. i miss my grandmother.

i miss my love, that used to fill me up, and wow me, and beam me up onto the earth, (best seat), to watch the sun rise and set. and it was so beautiful, that i wouldn’t give it up for the world, not the memories, not for anyone.

#poetry

weirdlandtv

Some more. Marilyn Monroe at home in Amagansett in 1957. Photos by Sam Shaw.

some ppl write not because there is something to say but because there’s nothing left

love wrapped itself in death. her cloak of magic taunted you, her teeth glimmering white in a shadow of a song you once knew, now played one too many times.

the screams of your skin, i can still hear all around, so who broke the cage that set you free? that bent it, rusted it, raw down to the bone. till there was nothing left but the hum of that same old tune, haunting, gentle...lonesome, nothing.

#writing #mine #prose #poetry #spilled ink