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what I love most is her undressingI am weary of those tired phrases;
those too large T’s and tattered jeans worn-out too frequently and too freely for we all own a few,
close at hand, versatile and abused for it.
I find myself charmed by elegant verses;
a lavish flow of sleek, silk sophistication and understated accents,
class and perfection, for occasion.
I am wary of arousing images;
that sheer black lace racing down cleavage and spine, up inner thigh gartered high, bits of material
(for clothing is generous in its naming as lingerie is to revealing) seducing my sound judgment.
I am fond of those earnest words;
those woolly jerseys (or sweaters if you will) worn with nothing beneath, no airs just simple, soft, honest whispering,
beside a book, beneath a blanket, to tiny paw-prints of pattering rain.
But more than each outfit or phrase what I truly enjoy,
what I love most, more than any combination of clothing or wearing of words, is her
When undressed I can most appreciate, (take time to relish and
I look at him and snort derisivelyI look at him, that
hopelessly idealistic romantic, and snort derisively
at his doting over Love,
his love… a love… any love, if only he had
He can't know what love is, never having had
any serious applicant and avoiding
the topic and chance at experience
for embarrassment--the notion of faithfulness. For whom?
For himself, that it might be more precious, for her, he thinks,
because he is naïve, frustratingly so.
He isn't even sure, but hopes in quiet confidence.
I can't help
but sneer, as I interrogate,
his pathetically sincere excuses and explanations,
pressing against rose-tinted glass to shatter
his blinding vision.
on him, that hopelessly idealistic romantic, with disdain
because I am one too.
You were rain that pours and never stopsYou were rain that pours and never stops,
never roars, and is never still.
You were the sighs and smiles of shores
You were the wind that swayed
the waves of gold wheat where I hid
but did not live; did not live until your words
were whispered into them.
You were the gracious moon that waxed
and waned so the stars could be seen
and I, dog eared and fox eyed,
was caught by the constellation of you.
For I shied and shrunk from the sun,
that shone too bright, too brilliant,
until I learnt to set my heart upon the dying light
but now it is night and you were hello
and I was ever a constant goodbye.
"are you sleepy today?"
"but you were sleepy yesterday."
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.
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 is a struggle, having a child would be too.
often times when she sets her tea down she remembers that her Bible is in the drawer beneath
along with the crucifix necklace that her mother made her.
her husband comes home late nowadays and she never questions why that may be
because she knows.
she would do the same too if she had a wife who took four different
Liquid Cityhere, at the bottom - lovers.
there are lovers disassembling
themselveslost in and to the
desperate ryhtmn in
of - waves.
- did you think the continents
moved themselves? see them slip,
in an open sleep. less go, come.
come and, and - again. trembling
here, at the bottom - their eyes
are lightless. hollow bodies left
the sea does not sleep.
the trouble isi'd like life to be
quiet and lovely
like distant church-bells
chiming through snow,
muted by the smell of
an old book and the
feel of a fire warming
me into my chair, and
a mug of tea, steeping
the moment in hushed
gratitude, easily in reach.
WhitmanI am all that grows from me
and all that grows from me is sacred—
my hair, dirty roots reaching towards sky,
fed by sky, shifted by its undulating currents
my fingers, spiders, crescents, twigs,
gaunt, blunt, probing, inquisitive...prurient
my ears, awkward conch shells jammed on as if by mistake,
rigid and ridged, elven,
innocent like unexplored caves for children to bound gaily into
resounding with echoed cheers of courage wanting
as if a dozen more children waited within, fearless guides;
my nose, obdurate.
The reach of my eyes knows no bounds;
what walls are there to throw my body against?
Churches Are For Raised Voices1.
she was white noise and an exit strategy
a cold stone hurtling towards Russia
she was everything he never wanted
and when she crashed into him,
there was nothing he could do to stop her
from turning all sorts of heads and heels
the wrong way around.
I was 8 when I learned
how a song could lift
boulders off of backs
effortlessly bear twenty three prayers
right through that solid white roof.
I was 9 when I put my esophagus to work
stringing notes into bridges
and it wasn't till 13
I learned to start pushing my own growing stones
up the bridges I built
let each carefully annunciated syllable
begin to straighten my spine and fill every empty space around my ear drum.
it was a planned relapse
a destined coming together of things that
or turned uninviting
as time etched away at flesh and her ability to sit still
his black slicked back hair
ebony hands stretched palms up
always open for her
and on the days when they weren’t
you could stand there and watch her re
Apologies to LaoEach day is its own microstep--
since I woke from my mother's womb,
I longed to mimic new words, trammel
the sound until it blossomed
like a newborn, and oh how I birthed
stories--told them how I wanted
the author's sacrosanct title
once I've grown. But growing meant
learning the practice of citizens
and their due contribution: beast-slaying
nature of please, thank you,
an apology: sincere
or not. Then there is time--the first
breath of nine, exhalation
of five, the suffocating mandate
of overtime. You grow used to it:
the cyclical disappearance of parents,
pervasive need of sleep, a home-
cooked meal's gradual transmogrification
to a microwave's impatient beeps,
the drive-thru's static, monotoned voice
by a man who has already learned
what I am learning: to cherish
the alarm's morning hymn over my mother's--
now I'm rarely late for work--can navigate
those can-lined aisles, the cold-grey
of the warehouse with deep strides
until I lose track of every step within
my eight hours--my mind
crystallophonethere is a punchcard sin
like a queen of spades smoldering in an alley.
you hear how the gears churn,
singing faster than we did before
back when black magic dropped like a
pair of socks from the sky with supplies
taped to a note that said
(oh, look at you now)
such a beautiful brain:
runs on gasoline?
have a gallon
or we can call it a balloon,
and a new pair of glasses
for your tapered eyes
(you peel the bark back on the logs,
but you're not sure what you see),
and life says,
either nail jello to a tree,
or keep your
icicles hanging from the eaves,
caterpillars frolicking in the ashes,
your 'Sam, I still don't have your number,'
and your totaled passion:
someone to hang inside out with,
string you up like a steak with.
what the hunger
is trying to tell me
my brain churns like butter,
my insides aflare, my chakras combusting,
la musica dulceheartbeats are psycho-
the ocean has swallowed
hay una guitarra bajo
mi almohada, y
sueño de música cuando
you came here with
city smoke in your lungs,
forgot to breathe.
starspunobserving the romanticism
of hooded cemetery kids,
smoking cigarettes pretending
they are not dead.
you were always so sure
about my uncertainty,
all my pick up lines
we built the heat
of the evening from the solidity
that two teens at the park
is the stuff of teen novels
(cliches dim on
our leaf-gold horizon)
your eyes darted
from the gray expanse
of the churchyard & wandered
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
about how youth without you is th-
awing out the lines in my whittled-out eyes.
look to the hooded
wonder what we'd have been like
if we grew up as nothings,
like them. teenage
nothings with chiseled
marble in our
out of our parents' adulterated
lies and the excitement of alcohol.
i settle for a star.
it's almost as luminous
as the after
PetalsThe grass tickled between her toes as her father toiled away with the roses by the letterbox. She watched his fingers weave between the thorns to pat the soil around each bush, humming to some John Lennon song she couldn't put a name to. Despite the sun just tipping the horizon, she saw sweat prickling his brow and his eyes squinting against the light. The fine lines on his face were suddenly accentuated by shadow, and for a moment, she swelled with wonder.
'Maria, come here,' he said, waving her over. 'You're not going to learn anything sitting all the way over there.'
Excitement sparked her limbs into motion, and she crawled over to sit next to him, careful to tuck her skirt beneath her thighs to avoid the dirt.
He picked up a pair of clippers from beside him. 'Now, you need to snipe back these diseased parts here and there from the base of the plant. It helps it grow better.'
Snipping off two pieces of wood with ease, he deposited them in Maria's outstretched hand. Their rough textu
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More