#escapril 2020

[angelus-a13]

it’s getting dark

a sunset that tastes of spring in the way of that first crisp breeze that rolls through the field by the houses the stain of yellow petals by the old walls reminds me of walking home, of sitting in the park in the dying light our sunflower who left and we stopped, left too nights behind monuments, stolen back from early winter twilight I've an itch in my bones for those times to chase the dark away and find the lightness in my heart once more

[xaiper-moony]

Día 2: Crecimiento / Decadencia

Mientras recuerdo el momento en que nos tomamos de la mano por última vez, pude sentir el viento y las hojas atadas a nuestros nervios, latiendo con el estruendo de nuestros corazones.

¿Cómo podríamos escapar de nuestro propio refugio, sabiendo que no podríamos volver a aferrarnos a los que se habían ido?

Centímetros, metros, kilómetros, cada vez más lejos, una distancia creciendo.

Quizá algún día, podamos vernos de nuevo...

~•~

Por alguna razón, mi mente aún se detiene en los recuerdos que dejamos atrás, con las hojas caídas en la tierra dorada.

Ahora, somos islas lejanas.

Somos los ecos del susurro de la hierba bajo nuestros pies, cuando una vez disfrutamos del sol poniéndose en el horizonte. Ahora me pregunto cómo demonios sobrevivir a la soledad, al vacío de las calles y mi mente.

Y quizá la flor que te regalé haya marchitado, tal vez ahora baile con la brisa, como el vaivén de la sangre vital con el canto de la muerte.

¿Cómo escaparía aquella rosa de papel, o incluso la brisa, a la melancolía de la tarde de aquel lunes?

(Parte de los escritos de Escapril 2020 que jamás publiqué)

[d0ll-part-s]

monday’s child

i.k.b

[mimetolith]

 a mayfly hatched at night

[boysaints]

modern medusa

every picture you’ve seen of medusa looks the same:

empty socket eyes, black hole mouth,

hair a ragged nest of grass snakes.

you’ve always wondered:

what it would be like

to be under her thrall:

eyes fixated on hers, unable to look away

(of course you don’t know it,

but you’ve always imagined them to be green,

like the plants growing on your windowsill.)

perseus defanged the beast,

severed her head and held it up,

a trophy for everyone to admire.

(you’ve always imagined that empty mouth

would be filled with regrets:

wasn’t i beautiful?

wasn’t i young and full of life?

now see what’s become of me--

men avert their eyes

and praise the boy who slew me.)

it was never your fault,

you want to whisper to the statue,

you were just the scapegoat in their terrible game.

(the statue’s mouth is open so wide

you think it might swallow you whole.)

modern medusa flicks cigarette ash to the ground,

runs a hand through her writhing curls, says,

perseus never killed me,

only thought he did.

it’s a shame, really--

the boy was so easy to fool.

-L.R.

escapril day 26: serpentine

[oh-writing-my-writing]

tie askew, wings forgotten.

on every breath

is fervent, his lover's name.

praise pressed to his collarbones,

a kiss filthy on his hips,

the haloed head bows to worship divine sin.

the seraph kneels

before He who makes him whole —

at the unholy altar

of profound rhapsody.

ecstasy.

and then they sway, and writhe

in each other's arms,

not to the rich harmony of harps in the

glorious, above skies -

but the breathless whimpers buried in the slovenly sheets.

now sullied,

with their chaste

naked

love.

some nights,

when an angel comes home to his humanity,

and lucid blue of grace meets

the glory of a soul,

even heaven cries out for earthly pleasures.

[whalespiel]

‘DOORWAYS APPEAR WHEN NIGHTMARES DAWN’ - a poem (Escapril - prompt 1)

A lot of my new poems have been constructed using my own variations on common creative constraints.Obviously, this is based on the Acrostic method; difference being that the initials of the prompt text begin every word instead every line, forcing you to approach each letter from multiple contexts. These can go on forever which is why I refer to this as an 'ACROSTINUOUS’ poem.It’s really fun. Have a go and share your games with me…

[cheruib]

— “I’m not the kind that screams and begs and cries and breaks. I’m silent about my needs but god do I need a lot. When I met you at the old corner shop, I was only an empty paper bag and I knew; I must have been looking for you. You see, i’m a hungry traveler in a land of dry rivers and rotten fruit and I won’t ask for food. Let this painful hunger dig a hole in my stomach, I won’t ask for help. But you were a blackberry, growing on the brambles of this deserted forest, you were there for me to take so freely. I’m sorry I sank my teeth in you like that, your tenderness was so exquisite to me. I have never tasted anything quite like it my whole life. I don’t think I can ever have enough.”