Spill over my heart's content

follow from @girlvoids

[mindlessmuse]

Start here. In the center,

between the wingspan of

the left and right ventricle

Hold the knife steady

slice through flesh

as you would slide over a frozen meadow

{Big breaths

through your nose

Don't look down}

Go towards the atria

cups of red where ghosts go drown

Take care not to disturb the veins,

sinuous and clasped

Names that dance on the roof of your teeth, nymphlike and light like a chant:

vena cavae vena cavae vena cavae

vena cava superior vena cava maxima

{You can look}

See how the big one pulses

See how the valves stand guard

See this mewling creature wet with your blood

Raw and wanting and ever-working

to keep the air in your lungs

the spring in your step

[grocerystoretrip]

WHEN THE WRITER TRIES TO MAKE NUMBNESS HUMANE, for Tigers Zine

[ID: Black text in Georgia font on white background that reads: “When poets crawl out of dead-white paper to remind me I’m an alive thing;/ When in the darkness I mouth my own fist as though it were something/ More authoritative, like God maybe, or even a loaf of bread not too dry/ For this blood-softened and bite-prone delicacy; when I am reduced to begging/ To an unknown thing, like a cicada out of season and reduced to dust, in hope/ Their cries are cries of tears, and not a necessity, like breathing; when/ Terribly alone in my hope I weep, unaware that hope itself is a product/ Of a life, small but here inside of me, like some sort of extraordinary stream,/ Like blood or more – I am then an unconditional human. Yet I must step out/ Of this room where I create monsters only to weep on their shoulders, to face/ The more human things, like light and water, and sweet-eyed June, and/ Spiders asleep amongst their poison.” /end ID]

[mindlessmuse]

voyager

a child will draw shapes into dust

trace the oort cloud with fat, frenetic

fingers

an alphabet of shimmering light, ice and rust

moist breaths stain that dark window

leading to nowhere in particular

except

of course

the stars

this is a story we know

ochre coloured deep dirt red on white chalk

palm prints in a limestone cave, reaching through time

soot-drawn fingers and feet

fertile lands and fleeing prey

deer, hunter, prayer

this is a story we know

in the dark of space gold spins

like a forgotten sun. a flash of fire

in a closed universal pot

the chirping of a bird in a dark forest

carrying our words, our greetings, our songs

mankind's mark, imprint in the dirt

forget-us-not

this is a story we tell

this story has been told over and over

hello,

the child writes

this was how we lived. how we loved

what loved us. what life brought

and if you happen to pass our home by

come tell us hello,

good morning,

good night

or even a simple hi

[mindlessmuse]

A moth meets the wheel of my bike; an eulogy

burst of brightened flight

tapestry of life, unwound

thread of being, snapped

 

now i must write your end and speak

of how you loved the light

above all

 

shimmer of the flame

its waxing rise and fall

lightbulb in the attic, electrostatic 

rendering you estatic

 

so it went

 

you, firedrunk

did not see the wheel's spoke

that would spell your end

entranced by the sun

your distant radiant friend

and who could blame you?

 

a body remembers the dark dirt

before the cocoon

before the rebirth

cracked puppa, light at the end

 

a flash!

at rest

 

you. no more. died

reaching for what you loved best

in this

aiming heavenwards

your end was blessed

[mindlessmuse]

Twin suns rose 

above the slender peak 

of your nose. 

Honey stalacite 

dripping into       

my tender mouth,

this aching

crevasse of  want. 

How delightful the climb.

Even more so the fall.

El. - 4.1 - Mountaineer

[mindlessmuse]

the ruined girl dances

      fish-eyed            in bloodied hide

here fallen stars flee     (l'appel du vide)

the fall of dawn              (le vol liquide)

 

the ruined girl dances

         stripped raw        mounted on the bar top

antlers dripping 

amber burning

           feathers and tar

 leadlight glass chipping

 

unholy eyes eye her whole

as deus exits                   stage left

 

there is no divinity to be found here

only

          the laughter

only 

          the laughter

only 

           the slaughter

only 

           the wolves

El. - 1.12 - Soho Angel

[wordrummager]

It’s the same ground we go over, until nights blur together and flicker like cheap neon bar signs and we get nowhere new, just wailing like tired wolves at the setting moon at dawn.

[mindlessmuse]

The spinstress bride

I dig her up

on the sixth day.

 

Crushed pearl skin,

                            lips of rubies.

 

No, that's a lie.

 Scratched waxen flesh,

                         lips of rotten cherry.

 

Her eyes, 

                  open,

       an unlocked door 

    I dare not gaze beyond.

 

Her mouth, 

           a jagged crescent moon,

           cuts me with its knife-edge.

 

 

Smell of sour apple,

     fish floating upon the lake.

 

 

I knew she was behind it all.

   The failed harvest.

   The still babe.

   The slaughtered lamb.

 

 

In my closed fist,

the spike trembles.

 

Her cold vice fingers grip

my wrist

         moving

with the tremors,

her hand

                shuddering, 

pale boat in the storm.

 

The knife wound spreads.

 

The door shivers in its hinges.

 

      One blink,

                   two,

        three.

 

Croaking of dead leaves

from her throat. I missed you. Come

rest

a while with me.

 

So I do, I crawl

in the earth.

Or that is

to say, I return to it.

 

More dead leaves, singing. Or

maybe burning.

Crisp.                          Crawling.

 

 

We'd sing with the wheels,

when they spun

like content    kittens.

Click of feet,                      string of yarn.    

Work and play

entwined                like fiber

while the sun crowned us

red, gold, fire.             Like this, we spun the dawn golden.

 

 

That was the before.

There were no voices           ringing         like graveyard bells.

What I mean to say:

My body was not yet      a haunted house.

 

 

It ended like this:

Drowned lungs.

Dry coughs torn      from the throat.

 

Blood-spattered        petals

tainting        snow-flushed cheeks.

 

In the end her Silence

was

            the most deafening sound

of all.

 

I buried her

on that first day.

 

 

The world

takes the child.

And fills it   with iron

bleeds poison, mangles

 

But here, the earth

cradles

us whole. The quiet home

I'd once wished     for.

The patchwork sheet on our bed.      

 

The spindle in my hand,

                   raised,

                        a quick bird striking.

 

The spindle in her chest,

                burrowed,

                              a fast mercy.

 

Doors flutter shut.

     Leaves still.

 

 

I rebury her

on the sixth day.

EL. - 1.10 - The spinstress bride

[mindlessmuse]

Cosmic Latte

In a laboratory on Long Island

scientists learned to forge matter

out of pure light

Braided by machinery

Golden photon halos

form electrons

Something is born

Something new

and beautiful

which is beautiful

exactly

because it is new

In my kitchen not far

from Bruges 

I whisk milk into cream

Pour it over espresso in

white patches

watch its furtive fingers spread

over the black 

like the sea foam

lissome Venus lept from

[ we plant the seeds we watch them become trees and we pluck the fruit we cut the fruit we eat the fruit we spit out the seeds and watch them take root and bear more fruit ]

This too, can be a form of light,

given shape 

if you believe in it

So today 

the sugar cube I drop

in the deep black

makes everything a little sweeter

We name this

little miracle

No laboratory required

EL. - 27.09 - Cosmic Latte

[paintboxmaya-deactivated2021120]

longing poem

[betterthannonfiction-deactivate]

Blue

Perhaps the sky and the ocean are blue to remind us that sadness is indispensable like the air that we breathe and the water we are made of, it’s essential, never far. There is something reassuring in thinking  of it as surrounding, embracing, pervading the way it softens all harsh connotations like the indigo night flowing into the hopeful blush dawn, or a sharp azure afternoon slowly wilting to tangerine vespers of spent passions and wistful meditations.

[tinysupergiant]

A place to start

Nothing — let’s start with that.

Nothing becoming something

small

Nothing — in its vastness — and then a fly speck of matter,

such that that you might say something of it

(anything at all).

From the massive wastes of faultlessness,

From the void of unending perfection,

To the curse of all that is known, spilling in a diffusion of dust, as if the vacuum has turned itself unconscionably inside out.

But before that: Nothing;

and the machinery of the nothing,

with all its nonexistent quirks and complexities,

and all of this annulled.

[mindlessmuse]

cutting vegetables, she gathered the world in her palms

spoon-fed me the houses

the meadows, the deep creeks

down the corner of my mouth, questions would trickle

so she unpeeled her life for me like a boiled egg

preserving the soft yolk

an orange pearl I could dip my bread in

me, who through her came from her daughter's womb

/

as the kitchen smelled of cloves

she'd tell me of papie

who hid in shuttered rooms

her parental home

more refugee than visitor

war is often unkind to young men, too

none of his friends returned from those factories

/

a bomb

           an explosion   

   then-

         the silo breaks

    hot beet oil

                      no exit

/

outside the war did not rage

but passed by quiet and boring

still as bone

hunger with nothing to gnaw on

yet sundays great-grandma would set a strainer of fries on the windowsill

oil and salt and fat

staining thin fingers

one day a week at least

the neighbourhood's children could feast

food as compassion, as community, as communion

like showing your grand-child how to chop onions without tears

/

my papie

the gentle artist with a soft heart 

who'd eventually die of it

in sleep, the beating ceased

who I never knew but 

whom mamie carried in a thin gold locket 

around her soft-as-butter neck

/

I never heard her speak german

'an ugly language'

crushing toast beneath a wine bottle to thicken the broth

like her, solid

aged 16

the school gates. closing behind her

the war. in front of her

the enemy. everywhere

their language; survival; she spoke fluently

/

cutting sandwiches into squares

sipping coffee

you, who I never got to know as I should

mamie, forgive me for my youth

I hope you and papie are dancing in empty rooms

with open windows

and that the war never finds you there

/

EL. - 19.09.21 - soup & war

[anjo-by-the-sea]

The City of Lost Dreams #55

in the city of lost dreams the kings of dusk have come for the birth of your eyes

your hands are cradles to rock the moon to sleep

through the ever open window my heart scratches like a red animal

do not seek or seek the fruit of reality in the distant mountains surrounding my resting place, I am there with you always, like bone, like dove and like language. <como hueso, como paloma o lenguaje>.

(dopplo movimento)

[riddlemethispoetry]

People burn quickly where I am from.

Perhaps we are all the sons of witches; blessed with a quiet kind of magic,

cursed with fragile skin that burns like ivory over

a bonfire; bloodied and stained by who we are;

or what we have decided that represents.

Perhaps we are the ignoble sons of Thetis, and she offered every man here

at this table the choice between dying young, and being remembered -

or dying old, and happy. No young man realises you remember your grandmother,

every day you are alive;

every time you see her eyes in the mirror; no. Young men swear themselves to serve an Olympus

that does not exist; become fire and blood, become storytellers romanticising

their own destruction. We are the crew of the Argo, promised nothing but

death and adventure; fool’s gold.

Perhaps that is what masculinity is; fool’s gold that you can boil and pour down,

down the throats of hungry, young wolves that desire to build Rome, but only know how to bite;

to gnash teeth and howl, that know how to start fires with their tinderbox skin,

that know how to burn kindling and cities,

but don’t know how to cook or clean, or apologise. The twinkle of pyrite is hypnotising.

When we were fourteen, Daniel and I stole beers and built two sets of shelves in my room because

that’s what men do. Caleb shook my hand once, and I remember the clap of

skin on skin on skin on knowing

that we were becoming what someone had promised we would become,

our fingerprints crying out for their individuality while we pulled on uniforms,

pressed the grooves of our skin against metal and burned away everything

that made us special.

Thetis’ seventh son died, and his body bled on the same sand that some farmer’s boy

cried on, begging ten thousand ships to leave him and his mum alone.

The sun is getting hotter, tired skin is getting sicker, and maybe out of the ashes

something new will be born.

Perhaps I can still change my thirty pieces of silver for new beginnings, or

maybe I can ask the witchhunters I made out of my own indoctrination,

to take it easy to give me a second chance. People burn out quickly where I am from.

I hope the pyrite is worth it.

[riddlemethispoetry]

deeply and irrevocably

I don’t know if anyone told you today, but you are worth falling deeply and irrevocably in love with.

When I was growing up, the window to my bedroom was loose, and I’d take the flyscreen out so

I could sit on the roof and watch the universe go by for a little while. I don’t always know where I’ll sleep, but

I still do it sometimes; around tacky hotel motels, up the sides of buildings that don’t know

who they are yet. I always save you a spot. I don’t know if you’d like that, but I do.

I like watching the stars and trying to guess what songs they’re dancing to as they smile starlight.

Sometimes, when the rain dances outside of my window, or on my glasses; for a moment I’ll see

two people dancing; their silhouettes made up of all we need for life and love on earth,

dancing in duality like one is the sea, and one is lava kissing the ocean’s hand; asking

if it might stay a while, and be land; years later they might have kids, dinosaurs first,

then us. maybe it’s how the light falls on the water like it is you and I, and we

are dancing past midnight in the refrigerator light, and my hands are on

your hips; your lips so close to mine I can feel you sigh, happily, not just hear it.

I never learned to waltz, but in the quiet air where there is no one but you and I,

I take your hand, lead you in my best attempt aiming at something like what’s in the movies,

you laugh at me, and I laugh at me, and for a moment we hold a beautiful assymetry,

we have never seen eye to eye, mind’s eye to long sighs, but tonight our smiles mirror,

and I love you like we are starlight cast out into space looking for something, for meaning perhaps;

connection, as if every star could reach every other with light, and then perhaps we would no longer

throw endless fire down on new worlds where aliens speak differently to us, there would be no more

radicalisation paralysation tying up tongues with hatred instead of the love that languishes when

we press our tired lips to all the places where something hurts and we are trying to heal,

or to forget. Once, I sat on a quiet rooftop and asked for time to stop, or for

time to heal me, and maybe the only God is time, and every time piece is a way to speak to something more, or

something less, and maybe all I have to offer you is my time, and the prayers on my heart;

the smiles on my lips when I dance alone in the refrigerator light, or when I watch

stars fall, and wish upon them.

[mindlessmuse]

wishbone

in the whirlpool of her mouth 

the words swirl 

sucked behind teeth

spat out like marbles

as if she were not woman

but fountainhead

endlessly spilling

bleeding her guts

all over

afterwards,

she mops the floor

apologizes 

for the inconvenience

EL. - 6.09.21 - wishbone