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[ “II” you say? the original is here. ]
during my break at work, i pondered a writing prompt that i have that’s technically for prose, but i’m using for poetry … & i’ve a very vague idea?? but ugh. i don’t know. we shall see.
what can one write about unicorns that has not already been written? the white-out conditions. the giant eyes
this is not a mythology lesson.
from alabaster to flaming june, our quiet death, locked away
that was oleander, this is angel’s trumpet. choose our poison.
will you allow the fantasy to wither away?
the eyes that never blink - mist on a lake, fog in thick woods, a golden light shining on wet stones - such sights make it all very easy.
a stinging tongue, fire crawls slowly down the throat, squeezing lungs, filling the heart, heavy point pressed at chest
the stars are now turned, submerged. the bull of heaven is drowning, & a horn has been torn off, forever lost.
these lines are a unicorn necropsy
my locks are broken. what wild sunken cities are here in your ocean eyes. your sea mouth.
you are a new beast now, but i have not forgotten.
___
3: Flaming June - Sir Frederic Leighton
6: excerpt from Professor Nobody’s Little Lectures on Supernatural Horror - Thomas Ligotti, Songs of a Dead Dreamer and Grimscribe
the tin on glass ticks
chicks - racked - cracklin’
abandoned park, we
spiraling lark,
windcaught marquee
leaf - dry air sparky
glass-in-tin rattle
my battle lies on grass dying
but still the lark, now
flying
a bloom of neon
in this head
behind the eye
pulse, pulse, pulse
[ black ]
quiet for a time, lost to dreams soon to be forgotten, the night crows pick at knowledge, at sanity, an obsidian-winged dream rebels
[ green ]
verdant ivies, ferns that coil willfully, algae spreads across the lake of memory, grasses sway & the thick sap of pine drowns, roots bury in throat
[ black ]
quiet now, & quiet then, silence grabs at straws, a slick rock at the bottom, bleeding
[ blue ]
electric, the tell-tale heart of the music, dry-wired dancing of loss, electric hum in the distance, electric hum in the background, in the back of the mind … thud thud thud thud
& it all slows to a stop
this neon bloom
behind the eyes
pulsing calms to a river’s slow flow
the headache over
… for now
so think i
of people dead
but ten?
but ten, & ten, or ten
what matters a number
only who those
about peace cared
or others or, or kindness or
more themselves than
you know ( & ) the ones
list them you can
some not will maybe & i, or i
can understand ( over-sit )
you’re -uated
so & hopefully
really am hopefully is all i
point to back but the
meeting of ten, the
all i & see is really one
the beyond gravestones or
Anonymous asked:
If you could meet 10 people tonight, who would they be?
maybe i’ll answer this in the form of a poem at some point?
a wave of hand, an ocean blooms
listen to the mouth run on
run on satellite height, on feathered murmur
thunder stitches lips for the sweet
this energy hums, blackened crysanthemums
so now to fall asleep
orbit away, anguished sea, drowning stars …
… nightmares …
& we all knife-tongue, we all wave
because the sky must open
the sky must open
Anonymous asked:
Who was “she” and what did/do you love most about her?
what post of mine are you referring to?
keeping yogurt chilled on the window sill, winter
who knew the fridge was gone
our strange memory, or dream
now you’re gone, with the yogurt
like the ice box
all i’m left with is a cold glass
a first frost
you’d think she’s got dark wings
the way she is
you’d think oh gods
as she spreads them
wide
but she hasn’t
those black feathers ( of the fallen )
she doesn’t even have any wings
in fact
she isn’t even a she at all
she’s just the fact that you were thinking you had some good content for this poetry prompt but really it wasn’t very good whatsoever
… she’s the cruelest angel.
a horrible poem.
prompted by @definegodliness.
—
oh thou, ye slackwettened hobgobbler!
a slickshelly bit,
that mossy blanket on the top of thine oblong head
it is festive - for a foul fungus,
it is canonically wrong.
thou art weewobbled & wrankley.
thy nub is akin to thy nose,
runny, red, rancorous & loose.
flat
flimsy
flippant
feckless
fannypanted
feeble-minded
fool!
thy nose-exhales art noxious,
thine odorous breath doth cause retching
& requires recompense.
thou wouldst melt down thine own mother.
thou couldst can up cantankerous.
ye’d tarnish the town,
varnish the village,
stifle the city,
wrench up the world.
fat-kidneyed fopdoodle.
clapflapping cloy-guv.
loggerheaded levereter.
pickledrooping plunderbrain.
bedswerving bespawler.
dripwitted danglefoot.
& most of all,
worst of all,
lowest of them all -
poet!
you weird people liking/reblogging something i wrote over 8 years ago. ( ??? )
the sea says something strange
about circles, i am not listening
your nacreous eyes distracting
this my mind, the fogged mirror
the susurrus of the swirling sea
keeps calling, i am not listening
the sea says that where you are
it is a warm rose apple morning
still swinging with the darkness
perfect, okay, i am not listening
it caught me on a night like this
what is october but a woman
a flowing black dress in the breeze
it covers this cold land
what is october but a strange man
dark eyes stare over the mad sea
fingers twitch in the fog
Anonymous asked:
how did you learn to write so well? the way you picture words together is so eloquent and pretty
goodness. i suppose most i learned from my dad, who was an english ( & history ) teacher. i took what i liked from that & threw the rest out. i also read ( emphasis on the past tense ) *a lot*.
i don’t think my writing has ever been called eloquent, much less pretty … thank you very much for this!
