#poetryyyyy

[subhelioss]

Prose from when I'm feeling like shipping poetically

Victim 1:

/

They call me a heretic because I worship you. But you're more beautiful and tangible than any god.

/

Do you, for even a moment, feel regret?

/

Step into my wake, into my heart in your dress shoes let my blood stain the soles red

/

I unleash my unholy fantasies about him on you. My emotions, like a rippling ocean, drown out the musings I could only feel the softness of his skin.

you can't hurt me. Fear the man who arms himself with longing

Alternate:

/

I have found my target. he is gentle yet defensive. he is faithful and sacrilegious. he has a heart that is overflowing with emotion. Oh, how I wish to taste it.

/

Let me understand you. Dissect your body while your heart still beats. We can go slow. We can go at a pace you like. Kiss me when you feel the pain. You say you fear me because I'm not human, but who defines a human anyway? I can take his form. I can work his throat and vocal cords to speak. And you. You never fit in with the humans, did you?

Show me what love feels like. Bite into my neck until the taste of metal fills your mouth. Lose your mind. You didn't need it from the beginning.

Break me before my words get to you first.

[mozki]

uptown downtown all around the world we gonna jump now jump now everybody go because we need . more . hardcore ... (mayday mayday) RAVERS IN THE UK

[hypomooniac]

-lordpoetry

Date: June 7, 2020

[limenmints]

And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it towards some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— If one, settling a pillow by her head               Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;               That is not it, at all.”

Exerpt from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock ,T.S. Eliot

[fatmalovestodraw]

The Art of Crackage?

For two wonderful weeks we have been examining Sandra Stone's poetry book: Cocktails with Brueghel at the Museum Cafe. I am learning that poetry (and language) can be more difficult than I used to think. 

What's wonderful about most of Stone's poems is what my professor calls, " raw data." I thought it was more like meta-data.. And then Kelly thought it was more like "pure data" and it just keeps evolving. I am mostly intrigued by the cover of the book: The Peasant's Wedding. 

So, as a way to rid myself of all the negative energy from work I decided to try an experiment suggested by Guadalupe and Ana, which is to read out loud and in public. It was interesting. I recorded myself and ended up connecting and enjoying her poems. Here's an excerpt from one of my favorite ones:

The Art of Crackage 

            By the way, those flowers, button size,

we bought at the stall?

            Days later, blued numb, standing up to their knees in pots too small for their imagined feet couldn't even collapse  the way most living things decently do, finally, but faded to a kind of dusk that outlasted all but evening in our evening mind.             The stone basin, dependent for its mirror on rain, yesterday in the courtyard unfilled itself. I suppose this is what is meant by seepage, the barely perceived hairline crack, the weathered days, one after one,  the sieve through which fathers baldly pass, mother, with her badly conceived apron, and, finally, ourselves, from wherever we were, las seen by ourselves.