city scapes rise
from the fractures
in her palms
pens gripped to hard
to bleed calligraphy
ivory satin gags
in bloody hidden wounds
to test the endurance
of jesus christ’s
compassion
a fraction of her
genetic flaw
breaking glass
and rebuilding her
bones out of steel
to endure a
harsher spring
industrial girl
for all the famed
to see
iron girders
she imbedded in her
side to mask
her matchstick heart
because she knows
saints have fingers
like the unbearable claws
a constant beating
reminder of childhood
failed and daddy’s first
negative pinned to the
pine green walls
i am not the
only one who cries when
they hear her
with cold feet and
a hungry belly
and stormy fixation
on a receding skyline
but I am the one
who will chases
it with her
It’s that kind of thunder tonight- the kind where you see the blazing flash of white, at least you think it’s white, lightning; and in the second before the thunder you can feel it rise up inside you like nature’s orgasm, until it hits you so hard you can feel universes be born in your chest. And you know as the sky weeps onto the gritty, ugly sidewalk, that it’s alright that you’re alone, and it’s alright that the sky is more immense than you. And you’re content to listen. And listen. And listen. And be whole, for once. You’re whole.
Pretty whore, I love your
cupid bow lips,
dying out like the aboriginies
I love your pallor and blue flush,
hushed cadence of breath
in the early morning midnights
pretty whore, I love you in
naked white rooms, all curves
and inside out flesh,
flaming greens and dewy reds,
sensuous tilting and gently sloping twists,
soft rifts,
Pretty whore, I love your
back burner eyes and downy wounds
in your palms,
ugly jade tongue
lovely darling, I hate you
for all the storm drains you
rear-ended and stop lights
you turned to liquid,
all the storms you ended
Sometimes I just
have this fear that
spreads through my circulatory system,
jumps through my neurons
and runs out in hazy green tears.
It’s ugly but that’s alright
because you ate the last
light bulb last week,
and my lashes
frame the fractured
crystals in my eye sockets.
We’re all ugly in the dark;
and that’s how you like it.
Oh, why hello there Tumblr. This is me. My wall and I say hello.
Art by Lindsey Way. So this artist is just incredible and I love her art and wow, okay, I just want to live inside her dioramas. All of these pictures are of a diorama she created for a series called Hush, the title of the piece being Tears Explode Like Bombs. All of it is made from paper and glue for the most part, I believe. I don’t know why, but it’s so gorgeous to me. She’s pretty perfect herself too.
I dug my holes miserably,
following cyclical cycles
like the Chinese calender,
only with less luck.
Weekly work that bit away
at my finger tips as I
hollowed out homes and
tunneled through ties,
blisters that burnt and wept
as I toiled away my time
and turned dirt into
dreams that I threw
out of fast cars down long roads,
limbs dragging across painted pavement.
My tunnels grew in width and depth
as my skin grew more shallow each hour,
and now as I try to walk away from the wreck
they box me in; cyclical misery for miles.
because then I get to wake up in two hours!! Motherfucking huzzah. Good morning or good night, depending on your time zone.
Hannah only smoked cigarettes because she needed to feel that unsubstantial smoke fill her lungs. It was something after all. Temporary contentment, yes, like a quick fuck, but better because she didn’t have to deal with the words and the mess and the empty threats to call. Marlboro reds, though. They would always be there. A pack of cigarettes couldn’t leave her any better than they could remove the vacuum in her veins and the great sycamore depression she planted in her toes last year. No, her Reds were good. There was a column, she remembered vaguely while searching for the tattered pack in her coat pockets, that analyzed personality based on what brand of cigarettes one smoked. Bullshit of course, like most things, but more so because, what if you smoked more than one brand?
Hannah smirked humourlessly, a default expression, when she recalled what it had said. Her lacquered fingers fumbled to light the damp match stolen from apartment 17 (green eyes, a good night) as she mumbled the words under her breath. “moody, emotional, and dramatic with a pretentious streak” she chuckled, both verbatim and mocking in one hiss of air. She lifted the cigarette grandly and elegantly to her lips and took a deep drag before exhaling the secondhand back out in a filmy cloud of cancer. So what if they got it right?
She’d rather be pretentious and daft as a dauphin, and die in a nicotine haze than lucid as a prostitute who smoked stolen cigarettes to make up for the bruises on her thighs.
I splay my fingers across the cracked cork; every pinhole is a ghost of your smile, the picture of us asleep on Macy’s couch with my head buried in your white t-shirt as summer cicadas sang “never let go” at inhuman pitches. It’s summer again, and the cold house groans and sags under the weight of my treading family as I sit on my bedroom floor listening to the rain rattle the window pane behind me, fingers fanned against a graveyard of synthetic cork. Four V’s divide the flesh of my fingers, empty space where cliches hide. V for victory and vendetta, virgin and violent.
Would flocks of geese fly south between my fingers? If I could, I would stretch up into the blue expanse with arms, normally so sickly and thin from all my invisible medications, stretching up to the cup the clouds, to pluck the sun from its shining cradle and swallow it if only to feel that passion in my ribs again.
Great processions of geese and aviary armies would flock and fly through the wide span of my empty grasp. Legs split and buried ankle-deep in the earth, arms a hollow offering to the atmosphere; I am the Hourglass girl: watch me waste all my time catching birds to bring you back.
Sometimes it hits me that we’ve all got that one person we are constantly writing all of these pieces for, and I think that I am angry that they never know those words have been penned, for them. Sometimes it hits me that there are hundreds of oblivious people, beautiful and ignorant and walking the earth without knowing that for each of them is a writer agonizing over the right way to describe the details of their flawlessness to the rest of the world, every day, forever.
I’m sitting here again
wondering how long it’d take
to convince myself to care;
to paint you in pleasing colours
until I could cover up all the beige,
blend the florescents under your eyes
and write melodies between your thighs.
This is more than you bargained for, isn’t it?
One week you’re strobe lights and
blooming astrological patterns on my palms
until this week and you’re only
predictable rhythms and a dotted line on the road.
I’m realizing now, that it’d take
too many records, and wasted shades of blue
to turn you into something beautiful enough
that would make me love you.
