[x]

8 and they'll be sun, and fresh pages, text spilling, twisted, frothing at(out of)the mouth, they will be ghosts, transparent, don't touch-wet paint, fingernail ghosts. symbiotic isn't smooth, biological, organic twining of vines you could cut with a nail, picture frames of postcards of gilt china or five sixteenth caviar plates. rhythms follow their own patterns, a set onetwoincomprehensiblenumber of a monday pattern rash birds, ink birds beat in the thrumming warm alive of you. curled, embryonic coats in white and grey form three barriers in notes of bibliophilia. sleeping aniseed furls sails of pretty youth and immortality, secrets -hush

cdust swirl
reaper would you sharpen,
grit rolls under your tongue dear would would
you turn the light on. turn the light on ifff
if you're

(quiet)
be good and maybe
just maybe
sh. a blistering wind! and you are tired jolene/
plastic blinds clack and clatter
behind
a thin veil
unassuming and quietly
stealing the threadweb of tender fresh infancy
pleasedonttakehimjustbecauseyoucan

the legendary! the legends! oh-
speak and listen of the tales the tales
princess tower hair prince save happilyeverafter but LISTEN.
the dogs chew thoroughly,
there will be nothing left
iy'd

woke with a nosebleed,there are tsunamis behind my eyes,
stinging cacophonies bursting holes in the thin tissue
at night, flooding curled bloodvessels with
shocks of luster.

a ghost slumbers pale in the various cavities
of my head, nocturnal and gun-shy.
it plays hide and seek without rules,
rips connections, tremors filling dreams and wrists.
quarts of waves break cooly
across the back of my skull,
patterned in dreams unremembered.

an educated voice i whisper jumbles and wait for the morning to catch them, wait for my eyes to watch it turn the mass of words over in its scrabbling little hands, in its sharp little face. the cemetery answers with a chorus of four hundred dying souls crawling. i thought i should let you know that the air snatches as it rushes, that my arches
are collapsing.

worn or disintegrated rockdear sand,
today my fingernails are finally growing. nobody noticed, but i haven't bitten them in almost a week. i'm very proud of myself. last night the letters in my notebooks swam. maybe putting off writing is a good idea. the christmas lights are starting to go up on the apartment sills out of my window. mine have been up for two weeks, but it's exciting to think that the holidays have actually started. soon i'll get a tree, and breathe pine and lights every day.
love, waves.

dear sand,
i walked on my roof today. all the people scuttling on the ground gave me a headache, so i sat and swung my feet over the edge. you'd probably say it'

'my loose hair hides in the pockets of my clothes
calves and elbows jumbling tiredly along the gravel path
that leads to the road
that leads to the only quiet place
left in a city

the strands close their eyes individually so i can dress
the blinds are plastic
and it's too bright to nail a blanket over them
so i make pancakes
and sleep

blond hugs the black of my coat and declares illness
washington doesn't have a secretary of commonwealth
which means the question is blank

----i wish i could singe my words
to your body;
maybe then i could
keep track of them.
if i could wound you,
split your skin and write
into the ice-scabs
run elastic through the seams
and tug,
until i am compressed
to a sugar pill,
small enough to keep in
the crook of your elbow
past the sun's death.

i want to remain.

woven into your various systems
and whispering through dishes,
wrinkles in your palm,
enveloped in the quietness
of lamp beams,
blinding and naked.
i want to keep you up at night,
have one-sided conversations
disintegrate into your memory,
into the burble of your constant mind.

a selection of syllables10/4/11. malignant fists, whale-white nuzzle into the carpet- i trip often.

23/2/11. do not read of yourself. it will erode.

10/2/11. words slip through your sinuses rawly, fresh scabs sleeping, path-like.

7/2/11. i have been reading so much lately, waking feverish and slick under tossed blankets.

17/1/11. the author told you to name a drownless day.

13/1/11. plotless hummingbirds are bungling through the middle of (y)our stor(y)ies.

6/1/11. the grainy film wraps clever social commentary into a neat package, to be delivered to the red door on pine street.

2/1/11. i'm sort of tired of your eyes darling, tired of your hands and the way y

arrogantfish battered wave smattered an inkling of characters leaks around your cells breaking wavelike over your tongue spilling through the gates of your hands flood flood and crash against shores there is a tightly woven knit between air and your body lather in existentialist voices jabbering away about mostly differing methods of measuring the gritty sand forced down your throat and sapping yourself from your self spaces mean platinum titanium goddamned diamonds snapping electric eliot plath angelou buk neruda cummings caressing careful traps setting lights to burn out at times timed for circles and harvesting weave

a different kind of sexual frui want your words in dead languages, hieroglyphics, pictograms and graffiti.
i want you to turn me inside out, feel the seams, the rough edges
of my stomach from pulling the contents out one too many times.
i want to drown in your letters, shove my head under the scent
of your croaking attempts at creativity, at originality,
taste the aspartame crystallized in my lingering appreciation.

starchy crust, potatoes, apple skins peeled in one perfect strip,
i want nothing.

i want to scream ancient obscenities, conjure up the daemons
unnamed from before our time, writewritewritewritewritewritewritewritewritewritewrite
i want to write yo

understanding fearlingering,
dab, we're spitting,
moisten our fingers
and spread an understanding fear
quickly on our foreheads,
a mark of thoughts unread,
drenched neatly
reading themselves and tying
knots in chewed, spat-out
hair, textured thick and tuggable.

my my,
how you've changed,
apologies accepted and regurgitated,
bruises healed,
a roughening granite pattern
pressed on your skin
for attention purposes,
a knowledge bank.

a scream flips itself,
fetal in the wires of your words,
read underneath, through the sickness
there's a density
gentle and curved,
it waves funnily at strangers
and cowers in front of that black dog,
she sle

,the people look like ache,
shriveled and lost inside
their twisted interpretations of movement.
we're tired here,
spitting out apologies and
niceties, the things expected
of a well mannered member of society.
looking at the hands passing by,
wrinkled and lined with everything
they've loved-
it's exhausting to think of every life you've contained.

_i am a thing dug of poetry,
labeled whore,
and mangled into death masks
for the tortured,
burnt, and drowned.

if i slept, i would sleep
between your fingers,
then twithe down to the padded
things that hold your words,
bend them in a kiln
fired hot by the breath of
my hellos.
if i were to eat,

i would consume the entirety
of your vision, swallow
the rods and cones
to curl in your tear-ducts
and taunt by holding
back the curtain
just long enough for us to smile.

if i drew, i would outline
myself on your forehead,
as a stamp, swim under your skin
and carve each bloodcell's
name into their limp, cracking
foreheads. if i

.i.
on the sidewalk,
she told me i was beautiful,
and that she
cut her hair in
the bathroom
with rusty shears,
chestnut flipping
down the
sink.

i took her for sorbet,
orange cream,
chocolate
chips melting
slowly onto a vinyl
seat.
the cd skipped
twice in the
same song,
while knuckles
rapped the beat
of summer
afternoons, tire
swings,
hot rubber.

i told her
about my grandmother,
who isn't
actually
my grandmother.
well, legally,
of course,
but she's never
felt like my grandmother.

and then we laughed over how many
times i said mother and grand
in the same breath.

ii.
it was late,
maybe
two am, three,

your cardigan is tornbuying tickets, rip the stubs, hang them on the wall, scrapbook form complete with small pink hearts punched out of the children's cardboard.
gun powder paint, dripped on white mugs, heat-dried, upside down in cupboards that belonged to your grandmother, pour black coffee in the morning and sip.
t-r-i-b-u-l-a-t-i-o-n-s spelled in sign language, on the wall, across photos of sky, clouds raining, lightning flash, blind some farmer, smash some wheat, rip barns into pieces and set one half on top of 18333 sw 32 st.
salt the caramel, lick the spoon and put it in the dishwasher, contemplate the meaning of life, curse god three times because tha

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8 and they'll be sun, and fresh pages, text spilling, twisted, frothing at(out of)the mouth, they will be ghosts, transparent, don't touch-wet paint, fingernail ghosts. symbiotic isn't smooth, biological, organic twining of vines you could cut with a nail, picture frames of postcards of gilt china or five sixteenth caviar plates. rhythms follow their own patterns, a set onetwoincomprehensiblenumber of a monday pattern rash birds, ink birds beat in the thrumming warm alive of you. curled, embryonic coats in white and grey form three barriers in notes of bibliophilia. sleeping aniseed furls sails of pretty youth and immortality, secrets -hush

cdust swirl
reaper would you sharpen,
grit rolls under your tongue dear would would
you turn the light on. turn the light on ifff
if you're

(quiet)
be good and maybe
just maybe
sh. a blistering wind! and you are tired jolene/
plastic blinds clack and clatter
behind
a thin veil
unassuming and quietly
stealing the threadweb of tender fresh infancy
pleasedonttakehimjustbecauseyoucan

the legendary! the legends! oh-
speak and listen of the tales the tales
princess tower hair prince save happilyeverafter but LISTEN.
the dogs chew thoroughly,
there will be nothing left
iy'd

an educated voice i whisper jumbles and wait for the morning to catch them, wait for my eyes to watch it turn the mass of words over in its scrabbling little hands, in its sharp little face. the cemetery answers with a chorus of four hundred dying souls crawling. i thought i should let you know that the air snatches as it rushes, that my arches
are collapsing.

intentionally disconnected,a slithering urge rips up my appetite by grass-like fistfulls,
an urge to condense
falter every thought that has the audacity to contaminate my psyche.
the gentle thrumming under-skin is knotted firmly
to the drum of words tapping.

a shell, its contents,
tearing, perforated and utterly whole.
wring the rag
gulp the freshly stolen, assimilated goods
and spread the contents of your stomach for special exhibition.

she leaves pauses,
pregnant and lingering,
until the route to the next unmists.
a familiar pang gasping,
urging now shout and dare and spill
spill invent a new word for the pulsing
of yourself rising within yourself,
l

arrogantfish battered wave smattered an inkling of characters leaks around your cells breaking wavelike over your tongue spilling through the gates of your hands flood flood and crash against shores there is a tightly woven knit between air and your body lather in existentialist voices jabbering away about mostly differing methods of measuring the gritty sand forced down your throat and sapping yourself from your self spaces mean platinum titanium goddamned diamonds snapping electric eliot plath angelou buk neruda cummings caressing careful traps setting lights to burn out at times timed for circles and harvesting weave

understanding fearlingering,
dab, we're spitting,
moisten our fingers
and spread an understanding fear
quickly on our foreheads,
a mark of thoughts unread,
drenched neatly
reading themselves and tying
knots in chewed, spat-out
hair, textured thick and tuggable.

my my,
how you've changed,
apologies accepted and regurgitated,
bruises healed,
a roughening granite pattern
pressed on your skin
for attention purposes,
a knowledge bank.

a scream flips itself,
fetal in the wires of your words,
read underneath, through the sickness
there's a density
gentle and curved,
it waves funnily at strangers
and cowers in front of that black dog,
she sle

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magnesium

by ~orangecloudsraining, Feb 23, 2011, 6:24:07 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

she is organza and rough, nubbly raw silk
that tears your fingers
and bleeds you purple, sweet.

civilizations rise and fall
in the curve of her mouth.

magnesiumby ~orangecloudsraining

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

©2011-2013 ~orangecloudsraining

i'm a fan of random titles, hush.

(i think i fixed it)

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*AlecBell Mar 29, 2011

Lovely word music!

Reply

~orangecloudsraining Mar 29, 2011 Student Writer

thank you!

Reply

*AlecBell Mar 29, 2011

My pleasure!

Reply

~jas08 Mar 4, 2011

Civilizations can fall with burning and little burns hotter than magnesium- Consider title connected.

Reply

~orangecloudsraining Mar 5, 2011 Student Writer

that's lovely.

Reply

~jas08 Mar 6, 2011

Glad you like it.
Hope that didnt cross any lines.

Reply

~orangecloudsraining Mar 6, 2011 Student Writer

no lines that i know of.

Reply

~allyestarrystarfish Feb 25, 2011 Student General Artist

i returned to this and the song that happens to be the reason we met came on the radio.
pfft.
and.
i am
unobservant.
what did you "fix"?

Reply

~orangecloudsraining Feb 25, 2011 Student Writer

that is a very interesting coinkeydink.

i fixed the last line. it's much better now.

Reply

~allyestarrystarfish Feb 25, 2011 Student General Artist

yes yes yes.

what was it before?

Reply

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