asymmetries @moderateclimates - Tumblr Blog

Maria Gray, from “Bad Nostalgia”

Diary entry - 30/3/25

I sit in my bathtub. One of the toes on my foot is pale white. It stands out from the other raw, fleshy ones. I trace my gaze up my leg, and count three blooming bruises. I can't remember where I got them from. They could've just easily come from banging into tables as my own fists. I bury my face into your shoulder and ask Why I Hate Myself So Much. You just hold me and say 'I don't know.' I accidentally drowned a spider running this bath. I didn't see him. I fished his body out with my fingers and left him on the side. He made me feel squeamish, even though he was dead. I felt bad for feeling squeamish. Today I slept on the sofa instead of doing my work. The smudges of the oil pastels I used that morning came out in my dribble, staining the cushion I rested my head on. I woke up, my mouth feeling black and white.

#poetry #prose #poem

shesanargonaut

Interviewing My Regalia

Do you ever dream about the mountains stitched onto you? Do you ever miss the summers there? Do you ever think about rice paddies and banana leaves? How did it feel to cross the ocean? Were you carried in a bag? Or were you held the whole time? Did you come over in a box, a small coffin? Or did you think of it like a bahay kubo, a little home on stilts? Did you find a place for yourself here? Did the home they brought you to ever feel like home? Or was it an eternal eclipse, like Bakunawa had finally succeeded in swallowing the moon? Do you like to be worn? Do you like to be shown off? How did it feel to be born from the most beautiful brown hands in the world? To have danced underneath the moonlight? To have walked up and down the mountains a hundred times? A thousand? A million? Since time immemorial? Do you ever dream about the mountains stitched onto you? The rice paddies? The banana leaves? How long has it been since you were there? Would you even recognize it now? I hope one day we can return together.

#poetry #spilled ink #lit #god i missed solange’s writing

i do not trust the whims of old men

who break others’ bones desperately

ignoring the brittleness of their own

who have borrowed the fangs of wild wolves

but become fat on their own indolence

men who fancy themselves queens

never thinking of the integrity of the anthill,

and when the caverns collapse

abdicate all responsibility but not their throne

i do not trust the smiles and kindness

when it suits them, before their

borrowed teeth see fit to rip apart

all the failings they imagined of you

i do not trust the whims of old men,

but i trust that those whims are as recurrent

as the tide and the moment of respite

is not relief, but simply breath drawn while

waiting to be dashed against the rocks again

#poetry #prose #lit #spilled ink #writing #i haven’t written for ages go easy on me

oh wow. back on tumblr again. hello friends and thanks to @shesanargonaut for inspiring me!

lies

The lack of god calls to me And sings hallelujah, sings hallelujah To the emptiness of the space Between bodies. In pockets of air Atoms hum to an unknown tune And I cannot write it down. When I die I will be buried in stone Even though I asked to be cremated But if I burn I will sing hallelujah As my bones turn to ashes And my family weeps to Ave Maria.

#poetry #atheism #religion #tumblr poets #nicola cayless #moderateclimates

Late night morbid drunk fridge poetry.

Jack and I

The giant keeps a pearl in his mouth. Jack climbs an oak tree, calls down and asks for forgiveness. Still the giant curls his tongue around the pearl, calls it an egg, calls it something golden. Jack catches the sun in his hands and asks the giant if he would care to exchange. The market value is in his favour. Jack comes to me and says, I do not have the pearl but I have a diamond. I ask where he found it. Jack says between the toes of the giant. I give Jack the sun and I give the giant my blessing.

#poetry #lit #jack and the beanstalk

loveknows-hang-deactivated20210

exahele

The poem was a tragedy. Two hands folding, never holding. The poem ends like a flock of birds migrating South for the winter and this time I do not cry– I do not wail into the heavy night. This time I make the poem a prayer.

Shelby Asquith, Be gentle going into the heavy night (via exahele)

home made of words and commas for doors and semi-colons for eyes and question marks for tea and parentheses for cigarettes and I have built a home out of poems and here I sit and sleep and dream of tigers and the end of the next line

#poetry #heidegger #poetically man dwells #lit #theory #philosophy #quick #draft