if only, if only.i.
we drove nowhere
and we spoke a language
that nobody understood
underneath a foreign sky
blanketed in the scent of pine.

ii.
you told me
my eyes were like envelopes—
because they were always
opening
closing
fluttering to the sound
of breaking seals
and ink stained fingertips.

iii.
i told you
we should run away
to a new land
with new faces
because
i was enamored
with people i had never encountered
and places i had never gone.

iv.
you laughed at me
and said that
if i didn't spend
so much time with my head
buried in world maps
i would realize
that i was living on one.

v.
i remember
it rained that day
and the tea went cold
but the

May 9th 2006

Dear Harry,

You’re gone.

People always told me death was a numbing experience, that I wouldn’t feel the pain for quite some time. It has already been three weeks, four days, and twenty-one hours, and they were wrong. I felt the loss of you that very second in the dreary hospital room. You were barely conscious, but Robert and I talked your way into a private room. Small, and unnaturally white, but I know you preferred the privacy over the bustle of the wards – cheery blue-gowned nurses, and the sickly aroma of flowers hurriedly purchased from the hospital shop by hoards of reluctant relatives.

I didn

Escape VelocityF = G(m1m2)/r2

Black – true black – is the absence of light. Darkness is defined by what it is not, by the lack of something else. When we say a black hole, we truly mean that; black. Blacker than black. An absence of not only light, but of time, distance, anything.

The night was scary when I was little. I hated the dark, but couldn’t bear to sleep so long as the light was on, any light, burning on the other side of my eyelids. I used to have nightmares about dark things in dark corners, shadowy figures with shadowy fingers trailing along my spine. I always woke up cold and fumbling frantically for the lamp, but the aura o

The Cat on the PorchYou asked me why I do not believe in ghosts,
celestial at four in the morning.
It becomes the common hour,
not a biting static shock in the eye veins like I anticipated
but dangerously vogue and precious
like a real diamond ring or sapphires on your breast.
No wood pecking or oil teasing or misshapen duck bills bleating
just clay, but lighter, lightest
and bright
seductive and crestfallen.

They bled Peter and Pangloss over a river.
I was wearing white for the funeral
humming 'home', the matronly letters
soothe me
clotheshorses and moonlight,
Mayan jewellery in my cabinet
the mother tongue kissing my molars better

But then there

What I Know of MadridI dream of Madrid
Because I know nearly nothing about it

Except that the heat is tangible
And sits in a layer beneath the skin
And the sweat of the heat is silk
I imagine it tastes of honey and wine

Except that the churches are tall
And God still has a fist of gold
Just as he has a palm of silver
Shaded in the vaulted arches of another age
The cheekbones of giants holding up the world
There the air smells of musk and incense
That has long since been swept away
By the wings of the doves that dance where the choirs sang.

Except that the nights are long
And the golden lights filter across the water
Like a sunset sleeps on the sil

The Libra HusbandI.
they can get you
in East Hampton for wearing red shoes
on a Thursday
I don't know whether you knew
that--I mean--do you know
that?
II.
it's very hot in New York City
I like the terrible noise
you hear at night and all these terrible
drilling sounds--I never go to sleep
unless the whole pavement is jumping
outside and it's a hundred degrees
III.
when I go to New York City I see myself
--Where have you been?
--Where have you been?
--Where have you been?
--Where have you been?
this is the revolutionary costume:
I never wear this
in East Hampton.
IV.
I'm not gonna spend another winter
in East Hampton--
in the first place I can't
I just can't
I can't spend another winter
out here in the country
I can't do it
I'm telling you--I can't
I can't get my figure back
unless I hit New York City
V.
any little rat's nest
in New York City
any little mouse hole
any little rat hole
even on Tenth Avenue
I would like better
it's all a question
of who you want to

Star SwallowerShe's
an enigma.
her head, a stadium drowning with applause.
yet its seats are empty like the notebooks
where armies of words should be marching.
instead she dismantles clocks
thinking she can play with time.
behind the mountains lurks a darker reasoning
a twisted labyrinth of rationalizations
hidden from the suns brilliance.

Years alone beneath the bleached fluorescent
reading those already dancing in the moonlight.
she is living a literary half-life through them
hiding from the symmetry of the writer.
licking salty rocks of excuses.
saving her secrets for posthumous excavation.
decades of productivity left for moths to chew.
you're throw

the tease of Earl Greywhen leaves speak they rustle
but shan't talk of lost cattle

out of bags like cats lying
purring perhaps stirring

gainsaying the language
of pictures - much fewer
than one thousand words
whispered soft - softer

ours to read into
by catching a hint of
some spiciness brewed
a sugaring of love -

or upcoming danger
a giving or taking
from whom in this strange land
once was a stranger

by this chance assessed
through one's cup or glass
darkly lit yet it be
from wet leavings of tea

hopefully let it be
the sugaring of love -

llp - dA - jan2013
DD - feb1/2013

in the seams(a) when I was young I was a robin that stole the eggs from another's nest.
fitted upon my stare there was a warning –
personal's too personal for me, well i
would not use wings if i had 'em.

a child of rye with a silhouette spoiled by the sun, I was, I am.

and sometimes I see some vengeful sparrows still under my fingernails;
their glistening beaks snap melodies that rib a hundred bird-bone cages,
so light you could blow 'em away with a twist of your lungs.

and there are still words jailed between my teeth and my tongue and I do not speak of,
do not think of
them,
but they rattle between bone and flesh and I
drown them s

The Solipsist's LotThere's something about yourself that you don't know. You probably don't remember the circumstances very well, but I do. If you enjoy things the way they are, if you revel in even the smallest speck of ignorance, you need not read ahead. I won't force you. But from what I know of you, you don't like secrets. Especially not when they are about you.

You see, when you were born, so at once was everyone else. Your mother, she sprang into existence, just like that, the instant your tiny infant brain achieved the smallest semblance of self-awareness. Woven out of the ethe

mutethings have been easier
without words &
we pretend neither of us care;

we stutter
splutter
laughing and choking
on puns &

when you bend me over nouns
i scream

louder
growl
more fluent.

the words are there waiting to be spoken

me . you . love

my dear, we've been mute
for so long

speak to me.

starspunobserving the romanticism
of hooded cemetery kids,
smoking cigarettes pretending
they are not dead.

you were always so sure
about my uncertainty,
you watched
all my pick up lines
drop things.

we built the heat
of the evening from the solidity
of starlight,

pretended
that two teens at the park
at midnight
is the stuff of teen novels
(cliches dim on
our leaf-gold horizon)

your eyes darted
from the gray expanse
of the churchyard & wandered
in thoughtful
paths.

i wanted to ask you
if i could follow. shove
the words aside &
remember that i came here alone.

i remember our innocence
in the static b e t w e e n
stars

earth circuitAnd when the sun sinks, the earth's skin crawls:

I.
I wonder if this awkward creature would notice me the way I notice him.
He's so tragic at his throne
I stare after him longingly.
And yet,
He never realizes that I'm the one
Who forever basks in his brilliant beams.
If only he knew how much brighter he could burn
[with me]
He'd light up the universe.

II.
I heard him speak of thirst, once.
The quenching lust of the stars had run dry.
So that night, I brought along a jar of acid.
(And how it gleamed in his glow).
I handed it to him, wrapped in taffeta ribbons,
screaming
I wish curdling joy
On my gurgling boy

on commuting with no hurrythere you go
lighting matches in the rain,
walking with two feet
that the gods gave you
because they cannot walk,

heading home as if with news
of some miraculous disaster,

counting the steps between yourself
and the clouds that disappeared
behind the grey veil of October.

thunder and lightning unfold
so close above

and you dream of a destination
somewhere in the south

where birds and stormy weather coexist.

behind you there is nothing,
running water will erase
every footprint you have left
on the dark sand of this metropolis.

before you there is distance,
enough to live your life
in a constant state of travel,

but not n

despondenti.

"are you sleepy today?"
"yes."
"but you were sleepy yesterday."
"i know."

ii.

she stirs her pomegranate green-tea until it turns from clear to purple
setting it on her bedside table and climbing back into bed again.
her fingers follow the bluer-than-usual constellation veins on her wrists and down
to the freckle on her forearm and then the scar on the inside of her elbow
crossing the tendon as if it were crux.
and then she remembered that God hasn't been with her lately.

iii.

today is long and sunny but when she steps outside the humidity creaks her bones
and her skin starts to inflame.
she assumes that if getting the mail

Browse More Like This

More from =vvolatile

by the time you get this message i'll probably bei wrote a poem for my self-loathing
and writing
quietly
on the inside,

realised
that i hated
that, too.

qandisa's daughter (who couldn't do it right)when you leave, my sheets are wet
with sweat and come and cold
in the absence
of your body pressed up against
mine, and the breath
poured into your grey-
green eyes.

i'll never quite get over that.

left-
handed left-
brained

baby, bring me a heart to eat

so i can pretend i've got
at least half
the wit and twice
the damage you deal.

triple your
bet, and i'll pretend
daddy never taught me how
to play a proper game of poker
for a reason,

and no,
when i said you have to mean something
to fuck
me, i didn't mean
you'd have to
love me
to get me undressed.

(society has taught me
that this is
sickening & unside
for a girl my age,
i guess just

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inhale

by =vvolatile, Dec 11, 2012, 9:13:23 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

the cavalry have forgotten
their men in the mud
and i fear we are
running out of ammunition,
ambition,
i mean
we never had much
to begin with

we've not got the fire of a
thousand horses but maybe
two.
sometimes
two will do.

2,285

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i don't know where this came from
i just like the word cavalry
nice to say and all

edit 12/28/12 - oh my god <3 thank you so much everyone for all of the support, favourites, comments, watches, etc.! i am so shocked and honored to get a DD and i never thought that my writing would be considered good enough for an award like that. wow. thank you guys so much you're all lovely

(c)

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Submitted on: December 11, 2012
Submitted with: Sta.sh Writer

Views: 2,285 (2 today)
Favourites: 185 (who?)
Comments: 59

Daily Deviation

Given 2012-12-28

inhale by =hhesitate ( Suggested by =Lucy-Merriman and Featured by ^Beccalicious )

=slowslicksnails Mar 24, 2013 Student Writer

(I'm surprised I never commented on this)

Congrats on the daily deviation that was awarded to you on this piece. It's definitely worth the recognition.

The whole thing flowed very well (fast-paced in my head, but great) & is very sound. I think this would be very great to read aloud.

I like how you rhymed 'ammunition' & 'ambition'. It's a beautiful & wonderful rhyme - it adds more to the flow.
(And then the three lines after it are dear god perfectly amazing)

I also like how you mention 'two' twice in the last stanza. It's slightly, very very slightly, repetitive & adds more to everything. It's great.

The whole poem is very great & beautiful. Definitely something to be proud of.

=vvolatile Mar 24, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

thank you. (personally i was never very proud of
this piece, so when it was picked i was a little
surprised and - admittedly - a tad bit disappointed.
what i like of my writing tends to be the opposite
of what other people do. it's strange)

thanks c: i've been meaning to record some of my stuff
out loud, i just haven't gotten around to it yet.

thanks again haha. i only like rhymes when they're
internal/not overdone, so i hope that when i do rhyme
things they don't come out sounding cheesy or anything.

=slowslicksnails Mar 24, 2013 Student Writer

You're very welcome! (I can understand - people tend to like the poems of mine I'm disappointed with, haha. I love your poetry almost all the same. I haven't came across a poem of yours I haven't liked yet.)

You're welcome! Please do let me know when you do.

You're very welcome! Internal rhymes seem to be much more interesting, less confined, and just overall better than rhymes that are at the end (especially ABAB rhyme scheme. I can't stand that).

=vvolatile Mar 24, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

(pilfer through my scraps. they're pretty terrible haha)

okay c: i'd probably post a journal or something.

haha i agree.

=slowslicksnails Mar 24, 2013 Student Writer

(I doubt they're as terrible as you think, really)

Awesome! I can't wait to hear one.

Cool.

~Zuzmy Mar 22, 2013 Student

amazing! really interesting use of words here.

=vvolatile Mar 22, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

thank you

~BittersweetObsession Jan 11, 2013 General Artist

you are exceptional in all ways.

=vvolatile Jan 11, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

thank you

~TheEmptyChest Dec 29, 2012

This is absolutely beautiful, dear. I am envious of your writing skill.

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inhale

2,285

inhaleby =vvolatile

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The Journal Portal

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What is your preferred drawing software?

deviantART [dee·vee·un'nt·ART]

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