We sat together, our legs in the water. Ocassionally, our toes brushed
as we padlled our feet. I felt your palm on the small of my back. The
red sun was sinking. "It looks like fireworks", you said. I splashed.
Tonight, I see you from the porch: Eyes glowering in the moonlight. Your
body sinks into shadows. The fire is warm. He bends over to add a log; I
spot a rip in his overalls. Inside, the memory of your pupils is
sprinkled over my eggs in bitter, tiny black grains, like peppers. "The
food's good tonight", he says. I nod. I think of our legs dangling in
the water: Later, our naked bodies sank into the waves, and I wondered
how a downward motion could feel so much like flying.
Now, climbing the stairs, I wonder how an ascension can feel so much
like going down. I sense the atoms of my body floating towards your
ashes, picture your toes sinking into brown ground. Is the fire still
warm downstairs, or has it gone out? He takes off his overalls. "It's
like fireworks", he says, and I feel his toes brushing mine. I paddle
through white waves of cotton, my hand on the small of his back.
Why do your eyes keep glowering?
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Jeremiah 15
We sat together, our legs in the water. Ocassionally, our toes brushed as we padlled our feet. I felt your palm on the small of my back. The red sun was sinking. "It looks like fireworks", you said. I splashed.
Tonight, I see you from the porch: Eyes glowering in the moonlight. Your body sinks into shadows. The fire is warm. He bends over to add a log; I spot a rip in his overalls. Inside, the memory of your pupils is sprinkled over my eggs in bitter, tiny black grains, like peppers. "The food's good tonight", he says. I nod. I think of our legs dangling in the water: Later, our naked bodies sank into the waves, and I wondered how a downward motion could feel so much like flying.
Now, climbing the stairs, I wonder how an ascension can feel so much like going down. I sense the atoms of my body floating towards your ashes, picture your toes sinking into brown ground. Is the fire still warm downstairs, or has it gone out? He takes off his overalls. "It's like fireworks", he says, and I feel his toes brushing mine. I paddle through white waves of cotton. My hand on the small of his back, I see your eyes, glowering.
In all the stories I have read, people long for daylight. I kiss prayers into his shoulder, waiting for the dark.
Tonight, I see you from the porch: Eyes glowering in the moonlight. Your body sinks into shadows. The fire is warm. He bends over to add a log; I spot a rip in his overalls. Inside, the memory of your pupils is sprinkled over my eggs in bitter, tiny black grains, like peppers. "The food's good tonight", he says. I nod. I think of our legs dangling in the water: Later, our naked bodies sank into the waves, and I wondered how a downward motion could feel so much like flying.
Now, climbing the stairs, I wonder how an ascension can feel so much like going down. I sense the atoms of my body floating towards your ashes, picture your toes sinking into brown ground. Is the fire still warm downstairs, or has it gone out? He takes off his overalls. "It's like fireworks", he says, and I feel his toes brushing mine. I paddle through white waves of cotton. My hand on the small of his back, I see your eyes, glowering.
In all the stories I have read, people long for daylight. I kiss prayers into his shoulder, waiting for the dark.
Jeremiah 13 (Third Draft)
Take the white and tie it beneath the rock.
Take the rock and shove it beneath the river.
Take her, softly, between your fingers,
breathe her between your thighs.
Water flows over rocks the color of your fingers;
white breaks like bracken -tongues swirl like eddies.
Do eddies swirl, or did I read that in a book, somewhere? What a cliche!
Like quivering thighs, or some such metaphor for the love of God,
for birth, death, creation, coiled up into this moment,
into your tongue's flickering and unflickering into my mouth -
but I don't think that word exists in dictionaries.
Fuck dictionaries. Fuck you.
Rejection is not the splitting of lips like reed seas - it is simply an alternative ending to the fairytale,
like when Hansel told Gretel he disliked her gingerbread cookies:
She sat in the snow and cried, blond hair and red mittens spilling into white-covered ground.
Does brown earth remind you of a graveyard?
You shushed kisses into her ears,
felt the rounded tips fit into the crevices between your lips,
the furling and unfurling of tongues - the bracken, floating
between round rocks that once held white foam,
between thighs, between fingers - breathe softly.
Take the rock and shove it beneath the river.
Take her, softly, between your fingers,
breathe her between your thighs.
Water flows over rocks the color of your fingers;
white breaks like bracken -tongues swirl like eddies.
Do eddies swirl, or did I read that in a book, somewhere? What a cliche!
Like quivering thighs, or some such metaphor for the love of God,
for birth, death, creation, coiled up into this moment,
into your tongue's flickering and unflickering into my mouth -
but I don't think that word exists in dictionaries.
Fuck dictionaries. Fuck you.
Rejection is not the splitting of lips like reed seas - it is simply an alternative ending to the fairytale,
like when Hansel told Gretel he disliked her gingerbread cookies:
She sat in the snow and cried, blond hair and red mittens spilling into white-covered ground.
Does brown earth remind you of a graveyard?
You shushed kisses into her ears,
felt the rounded tips fit into the crevices between your lips,
the furling and unfurling of tongues - the bracken, floating
between round rocks that once held white foam,
between thighs, between fingers - breathe softly.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
LD2
If love is no more than a bit of leftover acid in the cerebellum, let me bury the nose of my not-yet-corpse into your body.
I stroke your hair, drier than the wind that blows through the door: How will it's wood taste? What will the brownness feel like, gliding down our throat - or will it stick, giving us splinters in the larynx? By that time, we won't care, I suppose. Like passion for a lover, hunger will come upon us - our flesh will swell with its glory, our stomachs pull inward like the clenching of thighs, and we will forget - what, exactly? Happiness?
No, we have long since forgotten that - along with love, sadness, and all those other human emotions. Like the true animals we are, we fold our days into the struggle for survival. We scrounge around for food, the way we used to scrounge around for lovers - it all comes back to sex, I suppose. I want to say something corny, like "I have left certainties behind". I want to write poems about kisses and flowers. I want to lie: to lay, here, stroking your hair, just a little while longer.
Can lies rot like flowers? If kisses burn like wood, I don't mind this conflagration. But if not -
Can you please hand me that glass of water? Thanks.
I stroke your hair, drier than the wind that blows through the door: How will it's wood taste? What will the brownness feel like, gliding down our throat - or will it stick, giving us splinters in the larynx? By that time, we won't care, I suppose. Like passion for a lover, hunger will come upon us - our flesh will swell with its glory, our stomachs pull inward like the clenching of thighs, and we will forget - what, exactly? Happiness?
No, we have long since forgotten that - along with love, sadness, and all those other human emotions. Like the true animals we are, we fold our days into the struggle for survival. We scrounge around for food, the way we used to scrounge around for lovers - it all comes back to sex, I suppose. I want to say something corny, like "I have left certainties behind". I want to write poems about kisses and flowers. I want to lie: to lay, here, stroking your hair, just a little while longer.
Can lies rot like flowers? If kisses burn like wood, I don't mind this conflagration. But if not -
Can you please hand me that glass of water? Thanks.
Loose Draft Based on Jeremiah 14 Draft
If love is no more than a bit of leftover acid in the cerebellum, let me bury the nose of my not-yet-corpse into your body.
I stroke your hair, drier than the wind that blows through the door: How will it's wood taste? What will the brownness feel like, gliding down our throat - or will it stick, giving us splinters in the larynx? By that time, we won't care, I suppose. Like passion for a lover, hunger will come upon us - our flesh will swell with its glory, our stomachs pull inward like the clenching of thighs, and we will forget - what, exactly? Happiness?
No, we have long since forgotten that - along with love, sadness, and all those other human emotions. Like the true animals we are, we fold our days into the struggle for survival. We scrounge around for food, the way we used to scrounge around for lovers - it all comes back to sex, I suppose. I want to say something corny, like "I have left certainties behind". I want to write poems about kisses and flowers. I want to lie: to lay, here, stroking your hair, just a little while longer, kissing the wind, too tired to caress you with my words - they burn on my tongue, like lack of water.
Can lies rot like flowers?
If kisses burn like wood, I don't mind this conflagration. But if not - Can you please hand me that glass of water? Thanks.
I stroke your hair, drier than the wind that blows through the door: How will it's wood taste? What will the brownness feel like, gliding down our throat - or will it stick, giving us splinters in the larynx? By that time, we won't care, I suppose. Like passion for a lover, hunger will come upon us - our flesh will swell with its glory, our stomachs pull inward like the clenching of thighs, and we will forget - what, exactly? Happiness?
No, we have long since forgotten that - along with love, sadness, and all those other human emotions. Like the true animals we are, we fold our days into the struggle for survival. We scrounge around for food, the way we used to scrounge around for lovers - it all comes back to sex, I suppose. I want to say something corny, like "I have left certainties behind". I want to write poems about kisses and flowers. I want to lie: to lay, here, stroking your hair, just a little while longer, kissing the wind, too tired to caress you with my words - they burn on my tongue, like lack of water.
Can lies rot like flowers?
If kisses burn like wood, I don't mind this conflagration. But if not - Can you please hand me that glass of water? Thanks.
alternative again
I stroke your hair, drier than the wind that blows through the door: How will it's wood taste? What
will the browness feel like, gliding down our throat - or will it
stick, giving us
splinters in the larynx? By that time, we won't care, I suppose. Like
passion for a lover, hunger will come upon us - our flesh will swell
with its glory, our stomachs pull inward like the clenching of thighs,
and we will forget - what, exactly? Happiness?
No, we have long since forgotten that, along with love, sadness, and all those other human emotions. Like the true animals that we are, we spend our days engrossed in the struggle for survival. We scrounge around for food, the way we used to scrounge around for lovers - it all comes back to sex, I suppose. I want to say something corny, like "I have left certainties behind". I want to write poems about kisses and flowers. I want to lie: to lay, here, stroking your hair, just a little while longer, kissing the wind with withered lips, too tired to caress you with my words - they burn on my tongue, like lack of water.
If love is no more than a bit of leftover acid in the cerebellum, let me bury the nose of my not-yet-corpse into your body, stronger than the winds that fade like night-time, more breakable than those damned pieces of straw that line the foyer.
The wind blows through the door: If kisses can burn like wood, can lies rot like flowers? I stroke your hair.
Kisses. Flowers.
No, we have long since forgotten that, along with love, sadness, and all those other human emotions. Like the true animals that we are, we spend our days engrossed in the struggle for survival. We scrounge around for food, the way we used to scrounge around for lovers - it all comes back to sex, I suppose. I want to say something corny, like "I have left certainties behind". I want to write poems about kisses and flowers. I want to lie: to lay, here, stroking your hair, just a little while longer, kissing the wind with withered lips, too tired to caress you with my words - they burn on my tongue, like lack of water.
If love is no more than a bit of leftover acid in the cerebellum, let me bury the nose of my not-yet-corpse into your body, stronger than the winds that fade like night-time, more breakable than those damned pieces of straw that line the foyer.
The wind blows through the door: If kisses can burn like wood, can lies rot like flowers? I stroke your hair.
Kisses. Flowers.
Jeremiah 14 (Alternate Draft)
I stroke your hair, drier than the wind that blows through rotting sheaves lining the pathway to the door: How will it's wood taste? What will the browness feel like, gliding down our throat - or will it stick, giving us
splinters in the larynx? By that time, we won't care, I suppose. Like
passion for a lover, hunger will come upon us - our flesh will swell
with its glory, our stomachs pull inward like the clenching of thighs,
and we will forget - what, exactly? Happiness?
No, we have long since forgotten that, along with love, sadness, and all those other human emotions. Like the true animals that we are, we spend our days engrossed in the struggle for survival. We scrounge around for food, the way we used to scrounge around for lovers - it all comes back to sex, I suppose. I want to say something corny, like "I have left certainties behind". I want to write poems about kisses and flowers. I want to lie: to lay, here, stroking your hair, just a little while longer, kissing the wind with withered lips, too tired to caress you with my words - they burn on my tongue, like lack of water.
If love is no more than a bit of leftover acid in the cerebellum, let me bury the nose of my not-yet-corpse into your body, stronger than the winds that fade like night-time, more breakable than those damned pieces of straw that line the foyer.
If kisses can burn like wood, can lies rot like flowers?
The dried wind blows through sheaves lining the pathway to the door. I stroke your hair. How will the wood taste, when we can taste no more?
No, we have long since forgotten that, along with love, sadness, and all those other human emotions. Like the true animals that we are, we spend our days engrossed in the struggle for survival. We scrounge around for food, the way we used to scrounge around for lovers - it all comes back to sex, I suppose. I want to say something corny, like "I have left certainties behind". I want to write poems about kisses and flowers. I want to lie: to lay, here, stroking your hair, just a little while longer, kissing the wind with withered lips, too tired to caress you with my words - they burn on my tongue, like lack of water.
If love is no more than a bit of leftover acid in the cerebellum, let me bury the nose of my not-yet-corpse into your body, stronger than the winds that fade like night-time, more breakable than those damned pieces of straw that line the foyer.
If kisses can burn like wood, can lies rot like flowers?
The dried wind blows through sheaves lining the pathway to the door. I stroke your hair. How will the wood taste, when we can taste no more?
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