Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Jeremiah 10
Sometimes there are no words. There is only fear. I fear to write you a poem, for to do so would be to know you - and how can I know you without knowing myself? The truth is a dangerous weapon - what a cliche. What a painfully true cliche.
Jeremiah 11
Your houses burned between my thighs, rose-petals falling on cheeks like flames. Your red hair was a horse's mane; together, we rode through desert winds. I poured water into your lips - a pitcher of cracked clay. I traced the scars on your neck with my fingers, and taught my lips to read the poems on your back - like alabaster, they were cold and unbreakable. Stones survive fire - they remain, like corpses interred by black ash, until the day a pauper sifts through the debris, hoping gold will tar her soot-stained palms. But we were never gold - only silver, waiting to be tarnished by the specks of time that coat our bodies like dust, or flames. The red glistens as it merges with our bodies' ashes. Who can focus on the color of flames? It is only when they lick your ear, that you notice the blue of their eyes.
Adulthood
I spread my legs; you lapped up my moistness,
then licked my blood, and sucked my marrow.
When my skin grew parched from your kisses,
you bit into my flesh like a sandwich -
soon, you will swallow the whites of my eyes.
If eagles would peck out your eyes,
perhaps your teeth would stop churning -
but then, my heart, long since implanted
in your againg chest, would stop beating.
then licked my blood, and sucked my marrow.
When my skin grew parched from your kisses,
you bit into my flesh like a sandwich -
soon, you will swallow the whites of my eyes.
If eagles would peck out your eyes,
perhaps your teeth would stop churning -
but then, my heart, long since implanted
in your againg chest, would stop beating.
Language
When I was twelve, I lost the gift of language. Eddies swirled from my mouth; letters floundered in kisses, lips shaking like rose-petals. I waited for you to press your lips to my petals, to ignite me with the kiss of language - the breath of life.
I grew cruel beneath your fingers: Secrets seeped out of my flesh like lies.
I grew ugly in your eyes - you no longer delighted in kissing my neck, and stopped bending over to stroke my collar-bone on your way to the kitchen.
Lies shrouded my arms upon your arms; our bodies were bathed in white linen. The moon traced flowers of light across your back. I outlined the flowers with my fingers.
Alone, in a room full of morning, I traced your body's print upon my pillows. Once more bereft of words, I summoned salt, and pleaded with my tears.
Did you know that silence thunders in the sunlight? Or that a body's absence can be felt by the flesh, like the kiss of a lover?
When I was twelve, I lost the gift of language. Eddies swirled from my mouth; letters floundered in kisses, lips shaking like rose-petals. I waited for you to press your lips to my petals, to ignite me with the kiss of language - the breath of life.
I am still waiting.
I grew cruel beneath your fingers: Secrets seeped out of my flesh like lies.
I grew ugly in your eyes - you no longer delighted in kissing my neck, and stopped bending over to stroke my collar-bone on your way to the kitchen.
Lies shrouded my arms upon your arms; our bodies were bathed in white linen. The moon traced flowers of light across your back. I outlined the flowers with my fingers.
Alone, in a room full of morning, I traced your body's print upon my pillows. Once more bereft of words, I summoned salt, and pleaded with my tears.
Did you know that silence thunders in the sunlight? Or that a body's absence can be felt by the flesh, like the kiss of a lover?
When I was twelve, I lost the gift of language. Eddies swirled from my mouth; letters floundered in kisses, lips shaking like rose-petals. I waited for you to press your lips to my petals, to ignite me with the kiss of language - the breath of life.
I am still waiting.
Cheating/Facebook
This post is kind of a cheat, but here goes:
I recently read a book of short stories, that were a collection of Facebook statuses written by the author. (Each status was its own story.) I've been thinking about that, because a lot of my statuses the past week seem to be the beginnings of poems or stories (especially list poems), but then I never get around to taking the statuses and continuing them. So I am sharing the statuses. I think turning them into stories/poems would be a cool writing exercise, and want to do it when I have more time. I'd also like to take the mishnayot from Ketubot (Jewish texts concerning marriage law scenarios) and turn them into a series of short stories/telenovellas. I really wish I incorporated more time for writing into my life, and its one of my goals as Passover approaches.
The statuses:
sad and mystical unicorns. coffee. rainbows reflected upon fountains. chocolate melting on a tongue between kisses. sand. iris flowers.
I curled up inside myself and cried.
The fog crawls in on little cat feet, then leaves cuz there's nothing left to eat.
Exhaustion growls like a dog, while sleep gets lost in the fog.
(This is an exhausted ripoff of Carl Sandburg's "Fog" poem.)
Forget the bro code - I live by the ho code.
Cassanova's writing is high-quality literature. His tales are fascinating, his language crisp, and his ramblings thought-provoking. Yet after reading the works of the Marquis de Sade and Leopold Von Sacher-Massoch, I find something lacking. Meanwhile, my mother keens in the background, out of self-pity for herself, because I have not forgiven her for breaking yet another promise. Talk about bondage.
Alabaster coated with honey. A golden watch. Cream-colored lace overlapping a wooden shelf.
I recently read a book of short stories, that were a collection of Facebook statuses written by the author. (Each status was its own story.) I've been thinking about that, because a lot of my statuses the past week seem to be the beginnings of poems or stories (especially list poems), but then I never get around to taking the statuses and continuing them. So I am sharing the statuses. I think turning them into stories/poems would be a cool writing exercise, and want to do it when I have more time. I'd also like to take the mishnayot from Ketubot (Jewish texts concerning marriage law scenarios) and turn them into a series of short stories/telenovellas. I really wish I incorporated more time for writing into my life, and its one of my goals as Passover approaches.
The statuses:
sad and mystical unicorns. coffee. rainbows reflected upon fountains. chocolate melting on a tongue between kisses. sand. iris flowers.
I curled up inside myself and cried.
The fog crawls in on little cat feet, then leaves cuz there's nothing left to eat.
Exhaustion growls like a dog, while sleep gets lost in the fog.
(This is an exhausted ripoff of Carl Sandburg's "Fog" poem.)
Forget the bro code - I live by the ho code.
Cassanova's writing is high-quality literature. His tales are fascinating, his language crisp, and his ramblings thought-provoking. Yet after reading the works of the Marquis de Sade and Leopold Von Sacher-Massoch, I find something lacking. Meanwhile, my mother keens in the background, out of self-pity for herself, because I have not forgiven her for breaking yet another promise. Talk about bondage.
Alabaster coated with honey. A golden watch. Cream-colored lace overlapping a wooden shelf.
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