Discover Top Posts Tagged with #beatrix lanuit

a carpet in beige and gold, vomit colored gold, save the stain for desert: for mem'ry, for faces and visions of worse days trembling, coming becoming mumblecore dismember the cause of it all— mumblecore drowning the words so far in an ocean, The Ocean, the song of petulant sores, the wish to stop crying to the bore of monotonous Nevermore, the carpet in beige the carpet in gold froyo, totempole of chore after chore after innards escaping into the world from your butt, oh the gore of innards behaving, daddy's little girl daddy's coming, daddy's coming mammy, mammy, human scolded by human lore tappin, tappin at the white of the door atop the ashes of her ocean floor The Ocean, the bore, the reason for the monotonous Nevermore the fame of fickle, nascent and tall and randomly shaved, boring into a cave never touching the core never agreeing that life is

#poetry #rhyming #words #poem #beatrix lanuit

Sprinting home on all ten toes, a big one breaks although its brothers never know how to shed a tear for ignorance

All ten reasons hold a grudge for time will never know its mother- tally the prisoners and their young and shed a tear for ignorance

Ten years spent in catatonia while half the world falls fast asleep: however will this moment stay, shedding tears for ignorance?

Heaven signs the memorandum, evening conquers ten more times with every primrose at attention, shedding tears for ignorance

#rhyming poetry #poem #words #writing #beatrix lanuit

Some of us survive between waves of flesh, on wet slabs of grey that crawl to their end the coocoo's of roosting doves produce a stale haze and on it our lyrics sail, on and on What, or who, does suffocation smell like? fruitlessness, in ways that steal rays off a sailor's final days— it grows brave enough to drown our soles not much different from lazy rivering through piss or mounds of BO But when it rains, less than half live to see it flow— is it always so subtle before the release: the swell, big bang, and then relief? No, first comes the smile, and then the lie But can grey hold more sorrow than tides behind sunken eyes? can grey bend backward, and how many times? Which existence is worth its depth? And will these useless questions ALWAYS fill our heads? We hope we hope that by the end our hearts be numbed by the cold of our dread.

#prose #poetry #words #writing #beatrix lanuit

(upon my first arrival in the UK) Behold: the vast expanse of monster with mangled locks for arms, alive and writhing, down below his frequent green finger tips where the creature in the east would have baskets for his toes-- life stretches, folds, then refolds and reinvents itself to the sky, reminds me through the eyes as I look back from the past at a slowing sprint towards something new: my birth, deaths, much ado to do

#poetry #poem #writing #beatrix lanuit #england #london

to live and die again

to feel, patch the sole of your perception: surrender all your vision to the sun to rule, conquer onerous ostentation with a self-reflective nicking of your shin

to run, tuck your head into your chest and let your heart keep pace to be one must let it run its course, and let it run its course

#poetry #rhyming poetry #original #writing #beatrix lanuit #poem #words

dancing with a sunflower

I got the closest I've ever been to a sunflower, last Wednesday It was 1PM with tears in my eyes Just one foot away, while walking through pearlescent falls, to reasons on the other side a dance, with gold and green When suddenly we forged a dream that spun on tilt with green on grass yellow, the glow of sunlight: armed equators set aflame And then we paused I stared, well into its face

#prose #poetry #writing #sunflower #beatrix lanuit #dancing

those who think themselves as writers often read of better writers then repeat their dying words and bore the Mass to death:

preach upon the Grand Delude as any words of yours are dear echoes, ebb and cur through choirs emptied at a haunted wake of diction

#prose #poetry #poem #writing #beatrix lanuit

prose draft 1 (hairdresser, Bronx)

Today in the Bronx, at the salon:

I walk in and my hairdresser is wearing a wig, so I do a quadruple take just to make sure it’s her. She confirms, and walks me to the sink for a wash... She asks me if I came in from Elder Avenue. Elder Avenue is 2 blocks from where I used to live, so I ask why. She tells me there was just a shooting at the bank. Three people died. She goes on to tell me they blocked off most of the street, and that I should avoid it on the way back home. She goes on to talk about how people don’t want to work, and so resort to "easy money" instead. Suddenly I remember that Fox News was on the last time I was here as well... After some silence, I remark "Sometimes thats all they grow up with."

I haven’t had my hair washed by another person in so long. I often find my eyes closed during the process. A third of me is embarrassed, another third willing to risk embarrassment for this pleasure, another third of me, unconscious... She walks me to another seat as water drips past my eyebrows and into my eyes. I’m busy feeling self-conscious so I don’t feel the burn until I notice that the drip doesn’t burn my eyes. I wonder if i should ask he if i can wipe my hair, but she has already pulled out the wax and hair clips...

As I stare into the boil on the bridge of my nose through the mirror, the one that has recently been lanced and is now darkening with regret, I remember that I’m supposed to meet a friend after this, if she isn’t too busy... I don’t mind not being able to, because this dying boil on my face would probably make her uncomfortable, and also because the hairdresser had already started locking my hair backwards. I hate that look. It reminds me of steampunk, or the Matrix... *Shiver*.

I wonder how Max would decide on whether one should be proactive in seeing my other friend, and if it would be passive aggressive to wait 30 minutes after leaving the hairdresser for a response message from her, before leaving the New York City again...

My hair dresser has been yelling in her thick Antiguan accent, but now she is talking in a calm voice, asking for the location of some passport service on 42nd street... She says the birth certificate won’t have to include The Father’s name because in her country when the father is dead, it isn't necessary, because The Father isn’t contributing anything anymore (where "contributing" was my contribution for lack of better memory), for he was dead. On and on go the other employees: "Dead?... He dead???" About four times, four times "Yes, he is dead... He does nothing for us anymore... Yes, I tell you!" My hairdresser’s voice raises higher and higher until the truth is louder than the words, themselves and my scalp seemed to be separating from my skull with every twist, and clip: "HIS FATHER IS [SCUM]. HE DOES NOTHING FOR US ANYMORE. THEREFORE, HE IS DEAD TO US." The boy is quiet. I hadn’t noticed him there... I’m hungry and I want the fries I bough. Fries always taste better in a styrofoam box, soaked in ketchup, and eaten with a fork.

Soon after locking my hair, my hairdresser starts talking about how she’s "not jealous." I don’t remember why. She wants to take just a little bit of belly fat out, to be placed in her butt. “Just a little bit, not too much...” I would be lying if I hadn’t automatically started wondering how someone as attractive and "curvy" as she was could not be satisfied... But who is to say she wasn’t.

A very frail looking woman stumbles in, trying to sell us dresses multiple times: 6 dollars a piece... The first time, no one bought anything. The second time, my hairdresser commented, "Jesus Christ..." The third time, "Oh my god... Just for another fix!" The fourth time, the frail woman exclaimed: "OKAY PLEASE... I am so broke. I will give you these last two dresses for 6 dollars! I am in need of help," just like that. They were two floral sundresses. I wondered if she stole them, or if they were her own as an employee told her to move back out of the salon-front, because her cigarette smoke was leaking into the space... She conceded diligently as the employee walked to the back of the salon to get her money.

After the transaction was completed, my hairdresser sneered in contempt. She went on to tell me about how she sent her youngest, not present, son to an elementary school full of white kids, $1800 a month, and about how smart he was, and how much his ears pointed outwards (to which she grabbed mine to demonstrate, and to which i confided that mine were just like that as a kid... to which I had pangs of worry, with how similar this story was to mine, except for the rich white kid school part...), and how the government is paying for the tuition because his GPA is 4.0... "He is my little prince... and so are you. Don't be jealous!" Her elder son laughed as she asked him to hold the tin can of clips for her after first asking him for gum.

As he handed gum to her, they both noticed these hoverboards on television (or were they two-wheel skateboards... I don’t recall). He asked for one, and the mother conceded, under the condition that he did well in school, to which he replied: “But I always do well!... Mum, did granny ever get mad at you for getting in second place when you were usually in first?” “No,” she confided, “She just told me to try harder.” “But granny already got mad at me for coming in second...” She told him if he does well, he would be the first in Antigua with a hoverboard/two-wheel skateboard.

I was lead to the dryer and suddenly felt the need to share this experience.Not sure why... Turns out that my friend ended up being unavailable.

#prose #draft #writing #original #beatrix lanuit #confessional poetry