Poems & Such

My poetry tagged as #original writing

[dove-coos]

can't remember if i already posted this or not.

[amalgamationink]

NAPOWRIMO26 #17: the poem is here but the poet got lost

(in response to Devin Kelly's All That Wanting, Right?)

[amalgamationink]

NAPOWRIMO26 #4: praise the lord and pass the omny card

[tinyghosthands]

"Bad Haircut," a poem of mine published Maudlin House earlier this month.

[exhaled-spirals]

— André Breton, “L’Union libre”

[semicolonsoliloquy]

My love whose hair is the single window

lit in the night

my love whose beard

has small red candles in it

my love whose lips are bread and butter,

whipped butter, with pink salt

and a rose quartz handled knife

my loving a raven among crows,

busts full of dark down

busting into the mouse’s den

my love whose shadow has one button missing

His tongue a door knocker

his hands dexterous flowers

his hands blush-and-white lilies

his hands waterfalls

his nails shards of riverfroth

my love, his eyes frosted fir trees

gone blue in the gloaming

my love whose chest is crème brûlée

[blubbed]

an exercise in desires

[oozins]

poem about staying up for the sunrise

instagram 

[isawhitney]

Haiku

They sleep in sweetness

Eternal, but I - poor fool! -

Find ants in the jam.

[semicolonsoliloquy]

It hasn’t been October in a very long time.

Still I crawl from the crease in the calendar page,

scraping September under my nails. Ready

for that month without a name. Ready

to swallow grave dirt and eat the moon.

These empty things are hungry. The pit

where the O should have been. It goes all the way down.

[blubbed]

first poem of the year

[blubbed]

blow your life up! it's easy and it's free!

[blubbed]

some nonsense

[semicolonsoliloquy]

Here is where the moon dips its head

To drink from my window.

My whole body is a bird-bath for dreams.

They come to rest and I

Welcome them.

My heart is full of worms

For eating.

[semicolonsoliloquy]

THE MOON IS IN LOVE

In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody.

The stars are open eyes. The stars are open eyes and if they cry

it is only because they have been open for so long.

Tears sparkle. Tears fall

like meteors. The stars are open eyes

and the moon is in love. Also,

the moon is dead.

The moon is a gravestone and the moon is dead, 

and that is not the same as sleeping.

Not even the sun sleeps. She hides her face

in a black veil for mourning.

The sun is in love and the moon is dead.

She writes the moon’s epitaph

in stone.

[semicolonsoliloquy]

Memorial With Superwholock

You died in November. You still follow me

on Tumblr. Under your URL, you wrote

Here As Long As The Platform Is.

I realize now you meant your blog,

not your self. I wonder what I’ll do

when the website finally goes

down, when you stop haunting

my dashboard. Regress to Pinterest,

I guess. I still send you

dumb posts about Doctor Who,

wishing to woo-wee-ooo 

through time to when 

we got matching rings that said

SHERLOCK and WATSON.

I’d give in and let you 

have the Sherlock one this go round,

so that you could come back.

God, I even wish 

Supernatural were real,

so there was a Heaven or Hell

you could return from, with nothing but

an aesthetic glaze of blood and an angel

boyfriend. The thought of it 

makes my eyes sting like I’ve been staring 

at a screen too long. For now, I scroll,

watching your selfie sail away 

across the deep deep blue.

[semicolonsoliloquy]

RAINY PICNIC

Those times when you poke your bruises and realize You are a very strange sort of peach You can feel your pit Damp at the base of your breast Tough enough to break bone Your ribs gnash as you breathe.

[lena-oleanderson]

also a poem from the new, unreleased collection. very possibly my own all-time favourite.