Thursday, January 29, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Seperate, but not really
Three separate occasions that are in some way related to each other.
(1) Floating through fields of tall grasses and blue bells
We catch our breath with glowing gauze butterfly nets
And exhale
The shards of each other’s wings
That stick to our throats and lungs.
The sky above us begins to quake
And the stars unseal,
Their firefly centers shimmering
And falling
Towards us.
Though we stretch pale arms into the sky, they slip
Between our fingertips
And fall to the ground
Like butterfly wings.
(2) We rush to control the wavering rhythm of
love crescendos
and staccato love-making
like conductors in an orchestra.
But we are pinned to twilight
As orange and blue hesitate in the sky
Stars swarm and stutter across the sunset,
Meandering and mingling
As a storm that plummets to the horizon
And rises on an undetected current.
(3)We are jellyfish in jars,
Hanging like bleach willows, tangled tentacles dangle,
Flaccid and nonliving,
All the gifts of the Pacific
Will not stir us now.
Time moves on without us.
Our lives write the love songs.
(1) Floating through fields of tall grasses and blue bells
We catch our breath with glowing gauze butterfly nets
And exhale
The shards of each other’s wings
That stick to our throats and lungs.
The sky above us begins to quake
And the stars unseal,
Their firefly centers shimmering
And falling
Towards us.
Though we stretch pale arms into the sky, they slip
Between our fingertips
And fall to the ground
Like butterfly wings.
(2) We rush to control the wavering rhythm of
love crescendos
and staccato love-making
like conductors in an orchestra.
But we are pinned to twilight
As orange and blue hesitate in the sky
Stars swarm and stutter across the sunset,
Meandering and mingling
As a storm that plummets to the horizon
And rises on an undetected current.
(3)We are jellyfish in jars,
Hanging like bleach willows, tangled tentacles dangle,
Flaccid and nonliving,
All the gifts of the Pacific
Will not stir us now.
Time moves on without us.
Our lives write the love songs.
I give you my [outer space object] of [emotion]
I picked up my journal in a drunk stupor one night and this is what I discovered (with some spelling/grammar corrections, of course)
I think I was reflecting on past love(r)s...
- - -
I'm suspended on an ocean of red,
kissing black holes and having empty conversations
with stained coffee cups.
Scrawling observations with erasers
on the back of old receipts
and killing old optimism with blanks.
Lovers like us pass on slowly,
drowning in loyalty.
Stubble budding above a shuddering lip,
we are lashing across the table, aiming for the heart.
But what is to "die" anyway?
I'm being asphyxiated by a self-replicating system
that is voice activated.
Black nail polish caressing smoker’s teeth,
I'll pound this perfume bottle into your throat
and leave you suffocating on pheromones.
Kiss the morphine off my lips, lover.
I crave you like an amputation.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
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