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funeral pyresif there is a bridge for your body
i am looking for it anyway,
somewhere i can lay my head
down for a while and dance
on the bricks later - stay
a while and tell me all the things
you swore you'd never
say to anyone. burn a few
things that were never really
mine to begin with, burn a few
things that were always
mine to begin with.
collect the ashes and
spread them in the deep
black sea, part (it
with) your hips and
let the tide
on being and belonging toi hate that to other people,
there is no
'me'. it is always
'you and z',
it is always 'us',
it is always 'we'.
not to say
that being with someone for so long
doesn't make them a part of you,
(because it does),
but it doesn't make you
the same person.
last time i checked,
i still have a cunt between my legs
& flowers in my hair, though
wilted & bloomed again into
something else entirely.
last time i checked i still sleep alone
most nights, and the earth doesn't crumble
beneath my feet and the sea and the moon
don't sway from their keep if i am seen
without him, and the bones
in my spine and the beat
in my heart do not
dissipate if i seem steady
as a girl belonging to no one
body mind & tongue
of her own.
muddy visioni. sometimes i see dates on things and i'll say,
"february twenty-sixth? oh, that wasn't very long ago at all,
wasn't that only a few days ago? what month is it anyway?"
and you'll look at me like i'm more lost than i'll ever know,
not even laughing because you know i'm serious.
"it's mid-april, you know that. don't you?"
i'd say, look down or away or up at the sky because at least it was constant
with its even grey, clouds rolling around and threatening rain,
always threatening rain.
i can't remember the last time they were clear and blue,
in the same way i can't remember if march even happened
or if that was just a filler blank, meant to be played out later on.
ii. at any rate nothing is sticking and that scares me so fucking bad, worse
than it does that i've forgotten my own birthday because who needs birthdays
when there's nothing memorable about them? i mean do you remember
what you did on your eighth, ninth, fourteenth, seventeenth birthday?
i feel more li
well i'm here and now whati've got all this alcohol and nothing
to light on fire,
so i suppose
i'll just have to
and i've got
all this gasoline and
nowhere to go,
so i suppose
i'll just have to
you're not allowed to turnit is tuesday morning and we
are littering the floor
with after-sex cigarettes,
you are running your hands
through your hair and giving me
look. there is the beat of the
drum and the hum and the
sigh and the morning kind is the best
kind, half-drunk with sleep
from a shark and the sting
from a wasp; baby's breath
kissing the window
the dew on
the glass and
the sinew in
your bones, not
to break the quiet
for anything you know and i
know, and we could keep
on pounding on the
walls and no-one would
give a damn:
not even me
not even me.
11.the internal oceans are more threatening
it makes them cold
and leaves her shaking
right to her core
its okay in summer
but the icy blues
and stark whites
leave her shaken
and scared you'll
slip back inside
trying to warm
but really only intending
if you walk.when she snapped, it was clean and permanent and irreversible.
the colours and shapes of the world changed, and she could almost feel the spin on the world
and after 24 years she thought she would have become accustomed to it, but she
thinks it has only gotten worse.
there were kids on the street, playing war and making explosion sounds with their lips and tree branch
guns and one of them pointed theirs at her and she froze like a deer in headlights or a
scared child in a hold up. and as the boy became weirded out by her fear, he ran and
left her standing there. feet frozen and eyes far too wide for a fake gun.
and the rain seemed to stop just before the river rose enough to flood her
because the deepest end was only up to her breasts, and she didn't want to go
to the trouble of bending over. if it was meant to be, it would flood and spill
and reach over her head and she could just walk in.
walk in and not walk back out.
inadequateyou can try to preserve people
in stories, in books, in poetry,
but it will not make them breathe
again. it will not make them the person they were
or those things they did;
it will not sound right
and it will not seem right,
it isn't right. you miss
the details or at least the right ones:
people are not made of hearts and lungs and limbs
they are ankles and hands and tongues and eyelashes
they are fire and fury and friction and fear.
i cannot say that i miss you the way you want me to.
i can't. just can't.
and that is the difference between you and me:
you say what you think you're supposed to and i,
i don't say much at all.
on trying too hardin little corners sits a girl
with a small mouth and big eyes and
a lot on her mind like how
ugly things are made out to be
beautiful and how
to mimic this.
a lot of books,
most of them dog-eared but
unfinished. most of them
well-renowned & critically acclaimed
which makes her look smart,
she thinks, but mostly
they're boring and
who's to know if she's
read them or not?
there is dust on the windowsills
and she burns
incense because it smells
a bit like cigarettes
and that is close enough
without actually smoking
the scents & flavours
range from fairie d
dollarstore happy.this happiness feels fragile, like if i hold it too long it will break,
the way some things just do.
a dollarstore happy,
i like the weight of it on my skin though.
the way the fragile skin over my wrists has healed into soft tapeworms.
the way the sky seems bluer even when its grey.
i can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips.
my heart lives on the tip of my tongue where i keep swallowing it down
in the hope that someday it might stay down,
and i will be able to forget.
i will learn to forget the pulse in my wrists
and unlearn the butterflies that live under my ribcage.
i will call my heart the sea and sail it
landlocked.i think she's decided that its winters fault she is still grounded in this
dead end city.
the cold snap has rendered her wings
covered by layers of survival
but she just see's them as useless
and keeping her stuck
when she'd rather be anywhere else
on stealing what's already stolenthe question is always,
"why is this happening to
it could have been anyone,
to be in the right
place at the right
time, though not right
people are always losing
things, often bold enough
what never belonged
to them or anyone
but the lost
lifeformslittle yellow wasp
sitting on my window and making
trails in the fog, how did you
could've let him out
(opened it up, pushed out the screen)
but drowning him gave closure that
he wouldn't be coming back
to sting me in my sleep through
whatever holes in the walls
he crawled out of.
pipedreamsfeeling anything for you
is like trying to grow a garden
in a half-emptied bottle
of cheap tequila,
it's only a good idea
because the rest is what fills
your stomach and stains
your liver and disorients your sticky
thoughts, honeydew heroin
of an idea
where does the good gobaby doll's been where I've been,
and it makes me ashamed to be a part
of this generation, another girl
much too young to be adding to
such a statistic, but all we are
is numbers, anymore.
please tell me
that you said yes
and meant it,
please tell me that you weren't drunk
off his liquor or high on
whatever he laces his bud
with, please tell me it was more choice
please tell me
you've never woken up sick
as I feel just thinking about it
because fourteen is too young
to know what small is
and too young to see
what lust can do
to a man.
unattended packages may be damaged or destroyedyou've
slammed your knuckles in the door
of your father's cheap-shit car that sits
too low to the ground,
bottomed-out & banged up
pretty bad itself, just trying to make it look
you've finally found a source, a target
a direction to throw everything in
other than back at
different, this time
there is much of a difference
contusions & lacerations
when lying and fucking become the same thingdead giveaways:
the way your bottom lip
twiches and the way you can't
sit still, the shifting of your eyes
and the guarded look behind them,
nervous ticks, stuttering, ums
and uhs, well- I just- I mean-
and what about that
tapping?, wherever you feel
safe or secure or
maybe that's the opposite of
what you need. what you want
is to talk down the heavens with
the dance of your tongue and the
secrets you've been keeping
at the trembling of your lips
and the parting of your
so much depends on
the difference between
go, and you never could,
talk anybody down,
Brain WaspsBrain Wasps
I am on the verge of tears. Why is this so hard? I think furiously, twirling the cylinder of Chapstick around in my fingers. I shut my eyes tight and try again.
I reach out to set the Chapstick on the nightstand beside my bed, but seconds after I release the tube I have to grab it again. Wrong, the brain wasps tell me, you have to get it just right.
I briefly consider hurling the thing across the room, but I know that I’ll just have to get out of bed to pick it up again. I am trapped in my own compulsions.
I know it’s stupid, and that’s part of what’s bothering me so much. Why can’t I just p
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`ChewedKandi has certainly gone out of her way to keep the vector community on the right path. Always making sure that her talents are infinitely scalable, Sharon has put her bezier curves to excellent use, and firmly anchored herself as an inspirational leader. We're absolutely delighted to bestow the Deviousness Award for June 2013 to `ChewedKandi. Congratulations, Sharon! Read More