rubber feelingand you...rubber feeling by breathingglassstars
succubus tongue, thistle jaw,
you break teeth
in, lashes straight rods
fanning outward, forehead drawing
lines to match mine.
gazing, looking for the answer
to whether you feel me
between your lungs somewhere.
i want to grow big in that warm glow
you splash from your pupils
but my eyes grow dim, distant,
paling, bothered by shade, small,
wishing for enough space inside my
cavern walls, wet caves, bat-filled.
the ghosts of another's fingers crest
the notches of your backbone still--
she's here, even when i prove i'm here.
i'm here, begging "look in me"
and find exactly what you're fishing
for; battered girl on tile floor,
imagined bleach stains,
pale blood eyes and damp smell.
you will discover me soon,
understand behind wide-eyed
tenderness i am
weepy, crooked, desperate
for a thing called "love"--
that limp word i carried
in summer like a dead carcass
in my arms--
back before i knew your name.
old oak eyes
before a ne
backwardswe're back in delicate city drinking raspberry lattes like it's summer and nothing ever happened. your mother let you come outside to smell the yellow-colored roses in shop windows and reflect over the glazed smell of baking in the morning. she doesn't know i'm here. we sit on benches and chain smoke virginia slims like pastors' wives.backwards by breathingglassstars
"where've you been?" i ask you.
"busy, i guess. hardly seeing anyone. but look, i'm progressing. i want you to know that."
raspberry, sticky-sweet, drips down our throats. it's been forever, lifetimes almost, since you first turned on me, tried hitting me like i was the reason you were suffering. the flash of your red-flamed face looms in memory. my heartbeats run faster.
"what did they do to you?"
"gave me lots of sedatives. took me into rooms when i got too riled up about something. calmed me down by zonking me out into this half-sleeping state all the time. it worked, i guess. i don't feel so much anymore. nothing gets through. but look, look, i am...
coals die downquite mysterious, i'mcoals die down by breathingglassstars
suddenly driven mad by
the harsh lines of your brow bone
and the shelf of your collarbone.
on wednesdays, i wake up
over you like dead water
sticky with mosquitoes on those
moonless nights when we're
conscious of penetrating darkness,
when our whispers mix and we're
forced into oblivion selected
by celestial cycles. sleep.
so i wander to your eyelids
and let my gaze sweep like full-moon
hands and fall back asleep, lifted
up by the drawing of your breath.
i am growing oldfinding sequences of afternoons where i'mi am growing old by breathingglassstars
fumbling around in a dark gray room
trying to uncover pathways never
opened in me, grown from patches
of organic cells to give me home,
let other people waste me away on
summer sunday, 3 p.m. when nothing's happening.
i try to explore cavities, opening
myself up for light to burn and allow
nostalgia to weep from empty wounds
almost like tears or rain.
and then all the pieces of me
will evaporate cleanly like freckles
lifted from skin after winter shows.
i peel myself from cold tiles
covered in daisies, i remind myself
of the way bodies should work
like machines in the nighttime
and docile animals in the morning
when the sun won't stop for anyone.
we don't remember the passage
of time as each second wastes,
forgotten, another moment gone
as it blooms inside my head and dies,
this action, this moment before the dark
with lights carelessly going out,
has meaning only to me, for
moments leave me powerless, whimpering
Last Summer's Corpseyesterday is when i could have peeledLast Summer's Corpse by londonrey
the tacky floor-to-ceiling wall paper
off the lining of my womb
to reveal the original paint.
next year is when i would have told you.
so is it okay that now is
when i'm aching for
wal-mart parking lot feelings
and what. you. were.
in the dreams i don't control
[the take overers]
you're always taller because,
let's face it, i'd rather be the surrounded.
i just got to thinking,
we are everything like a cannon-ball romance.
wound too tightly in order to make an impact,
(there's pain in our freefall.)
--here's to maintaining the fetal position and hoping for the best.--
Twowho is to tell me i shouldn't miss it--Two by londonrey
my window faced a playground.
its twisty slide was filled with snow,
and the silence was silenter than i'm used to
but that was alright,
cos there was an old radio
on my nightstand.
the only station that came in was nothing
but older than old country,
and even that was still fuzzy.
the word fuzzy makes me think of peaches and/or caterpillars.
in sixth grade i killed one of our caterpillars
on accident cos it fell off the desk it was crawling on.
i was cryin an cryin, thinkin what that little green babe musta felt
while it was gettin smooshed between my shin bone and the chair.
i was cryin even before the kids were snappin
like beetle claws in the air in front of my face.
i used angry paper towels to scrape the poor babe off
and to wipe my cheeks.
i'm thinkin maybe some of him got on me and then in me,
cos i can still feel his hurt.
at night-time i love to cocoon
the hospital-white sheets
around my shaky limbs.
i think if i hold myself in tight
She Never Meant...this cockpit is a coffin.She Never Meant... by londonrey
my rats are (blessed) off-white-noise;
they chirp and mate on their yet-squirming feast.
no one would care that you&i are oil&water
except that we never
[used to be.]
in other words, we have not always been
s e p a r a b l e .
one imaginary window is all anyone really has.
i'm not the exception.
our treasured eyesight exists only to lead us deeper into our own heads.
technicolor bleeds from the lies we tell ourselves.
[why else do we shut our eyes upon impact,
other than to conjure a more unfortunate portrait.]
in other words,
you can only hide from your shadow in the purest dark,
and death is the only thing more real than love.
Chai Tea Lattewe only sip such things for the imagined sophistication of it,Chai Tea Latte by londonrey
a subtle smooth poison
s l i d e s
from every sort of surface,
to think ourselves wiser than the foam or glass.
a feigned agedness,
[resulting in arachnid digits]
plink-planks lettered keys
with jagged realities
we won't let them see
we can do better