Venus in Gemini @progressing-on - Tumblr Blog

The sounds of spring bound into my wet ears and I'm left thinking of the gun and the good it's done me. Her straight face and everything she left inside. The spring brings its perennial shoots and with it the gun I lust for. The heat will twist me with humid hands, pull and stretch till you can't recognize my head or heart. Soon the heat will feast on the softness in my chest and leave behind a clay pigeon. Summer comes to me so the gun leaves its cave.

Laying in bed, guarded by the veil, they rest with one eye open. When we sharpen our mammoth tusks, who would call the kettle anything. The drip feed you indulge me is leaky and warm with the mucus you made. Shivers of roller coaster swigs, your nose book deep in the necronomicon. You're weird when you sing, the air gets tepid and I yearn to turn on heat. Sing instead, cover your sleep mouth with last week's body hair and give me the floor. Drag a good foot behind me, I have no life left for the head that sits on all those necks.

The mast makes shore with the weight of waves paving their way over big barnacles and the trails of snails. The air is wet and well preserved on the tongue; the sun climbs the hill of sand that cuts these impish trees to shrubs. Every sight behind is wide and churned, while the foreseen is narrow and almost calorically dense. Hands shoveling sand and reaching for heavy woven cords, cracky laughs, then coughs at the sight of a freshly washed fork. It's where the rocking of horses leads, the cradle of a mother: wide as crude. The sea and her breast milk lips, a cradling mouth that kisses as much as it chews. Shearing off skins and putting the few intact to rest.

Dead Bolt

The air between us is tampered with by the weight of a deadbolt. A dull block of lock, pushed farther than you intended. I look for absolution in the weight of the frame and search for lost parties in the glare of a looking glass. The forward and back, the idle minivan hyphenating the street. Your arms and legs around me, placated by the pain of trapped fingers. You kiss them and the air goes pointless. An unpaid employee, the heart of a dog. The point is shot through the barrel of the looking glass and I wade through flooded foundations and loose shingles with rubber boots and bereavement. I mourn your locked doors and my unbroken fingers.

Leftless hounds the wall while I connect his mouth to the tube of a leaf blower. Plumfull of air like big bad balloons. The thin explosions of kernels drenched in fat dregs. I hold the hairs between his skins and remember the trimmings on my linoleum tiled floor. 'Were here," he screams from the back of his throat barely peeping over the velvet ropes. I scream at him from the depths of my chest how the naire between his cheeks has filled me with plumes of forgetfulness. Leftless takes his rights and strokes the back of my neck like he'd stroke a gear shift. I do not breathe I only scream at him, I tell him that the air I breathe is only thieving and I wish my lungs deflated. With his hands in fist he takes my chin and fills my lungs with spit instead. From leaf blown tongues and distressed tears the drip feed fill is slow as snails. So I take my spit and fill his eyes with last morning's food to pass the time. Systemic refueling, rubbing the food things deep into the skin we shared. Teeth in piles, banquet halls, pews of bone and ivory. Leave them vacant and savor the spit and empty his shallow lungs into me.

Rumpus round my torso, I love you so I love you so. The tree hairs spun to cotton threads, I wear your yarn wig and pretend I'm more than man. But there's needles on my belly and there's sand paper on my face. No moments pass, there's no exceptions to a rule you haven't made and all the food in the safe is moldy and only good for finger-face paint. Globules of eyeshadow and swatches of Elmer's paste. The love of eating and the horns you file. Pleases and gos like hellos and I love you sos. Raspy whiskers and tails like mines who wait for heavy steps. You'll leave for the season and promise it's just the weather that makes you afraid. You'll miss the pool and the pretty flowers even though they were never there. You'll tip the wait staff and fill the bigger bowls. Leave them dirty so I can clean, the house is empty in the never-spring and the winter somehow still holds scaly thing.

The air was stale when the dog bit her leg. She bled and she cried and the dog did neither. Listening to her stomach and the dog bits in her eyes it took hours for the bleeding to stop. So I put on your underwear because you asked me too, and I felt the blood between my legs and wondered what it would feel like to be whole from the beginning. This pathetic warmth between my legs, someone else's whole. Is this what it takes? Does that thing between us perfect me or only make me you. I don't have the energy for a question like that so I use my teeth like shears and eviscerate your underwear because I was only given the garbage pair. I don't know what is trying and what is mistake, the feed on my plate is only filling the belly I've only fed hate. Some big black dog with small white teeth plucking my fur like banjo strings. Just bloody rags you thought would make me whole or free or right. But here between my parts the air grows stale from never washing and I shear off whatever grows since it's only your baby hairs.

The night wafts the smell of blackened meat and the whispers of multiple mothers through the mouth of a telephone. A hand holds another, pointing fingers, as they pass over labels of colorful spices. To feel your love and smell its richness is to taste the lip of a wooden spoon. Cream and black pepper, garlic and fennel. Cold, calloused hands reach for cast iron; meat is dropped into scalding oil it no longer feels. But the air is well seasoned and the night carries with it the love of a rounded belly, sleeping till morning.

Sardines

Plagued with unknowing, the air grows narrow under all of our noses. Only synaptic space between sardines, we're getting no closer. The dull hum of the perfect electric rub is warming, each of us moving pistons in the people rug. No need for clothes who are easily shredded like scaled skin. Eye caps and sealed nostrils are just gills. Friction-feel the snake twist torment and how it leaves the sardines hapless, packed tight in brine.

#writing #poetrty #poem

She put on my tights and my fat skipped over white seams into quilted pools of shorn velvet. Young buck of deer or elk.

I've been talking backwards. Listlessness hidden behind fistfuls of fruit mash. Prime rotten, air bidden time that scraped the slit from the bottom of my tummy. Reuse the reduction and filter it through the holes in my teeth.

You're a sun spot on a bed spread. You're the warmth of cotton linen cast into soft silk. A hole in the head space who holds my hand and presses my chest till gravity is a reservation. You linger a little longer than the dust took to settle where the wind dance whirled it round. This room, neon green, at least the last I heard from the quiet hum of the electric lungs who hide inside of me. Fairer grounds, safe measures that cradle the light and her shadows as surely as a surrogate mother wields her flowers. You carry me in your underarm and feed me the kisses I breathe. Beautiful light, carry me by the curves of fat that hide my mind beneath.

Another sliver past the morning. Wonders behind the minute hand, how hilarious it is to find privilege in this suffering. It lingers in the throat like RC Cola and caramelizes the tips of fingers like individual apples. Skelton heads on five long necks, no minutes left to make last. Jaw breaker, peach pit, just a stone in the stomach. Churn the grasses to vegetable oils and stain this stomach green. Fill me up buttercup and watch the drippings drain away.

Ode to being locked in an adjacent

Behind your interlocked fingers I see my parts entangled like decaying seaweed flowing in the salt brine of the dead sea. For I am the larking bird inside your eye who hides inside the room adjacent you. A keyhole or a sinkhole could not hide your cheekbones from my fists, I would find you beside it or beneath. Splintered wood or aluminum shraps a pinecone person is all the better for scraping at insides. A fingernail full of your eye's second layers or a thimble full of whatever bit of my spit lingers in your sinus. I will find your memories where I lost my owns and sort them by color and taste. Purple ones and licorice ones and grey ones and peach ones brought to a boil for a marzipan of illwill and posthumous tasting. I spread it thick over the sink, a bright veneer of enameled cream, it glides down the sides and into the perpendicular cracks of the checkered floors. Taste them and scrub them from your toes, fill yourself entirely and know the space was wasted with a boundary between. I am a woman of little scale, my hips are arched angels, birds with wide beaks who flex into your marmalade skies and leave room for toads who wart your flesh until it hurts all on it's own.

I'll rest once you find me in my gown. Flowing flower how you hug and hold me in the ways I needed when I was just a girl. Is this where I find you? This shadow behind my brow is lost in the light green I'm showered in. This is where I stay, the sweet places between washings where I'm allotted breathing room. So I rest in your hands, soft like cotton and await the pulls of my heart's strings. Under these pearly white lime lights I rest between your finger valleys. I rest in the streams of aquamarine and feel your hands steep me in cerulean.

I wish you had known me as a child. In that time my senses were sharp and reflective, I felt the leers of fall and fell into thoughtlessness. Mac n’ cheese and peanut butter, I have the morning to watch the news. For better or worse it's like losing a limb, so I wish I could put them in your mouth like little losanges. I had words at one point and a face at another and I dream you read them in the back of your mind.

We mostly deal in unkempt mattresses. The unsure instilled in a sheared pillow case, I am the loose down and you are the broken spring. The other is half as imperfect as the other one can take. I don't see why we sit at the bottom of a hamper while the bed bears its bones. Teary and stained and improperly chaste, single socks stuck under your soiled sheets. Wraps round your waist, a lock in hand for other people to wash before they breed.

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Venus in Gemini