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the vomiting crowd of coney islandthe destructive walls are shaded
in grey and i am remembering
every feeling i have forgotten-
i am terrified.
this is a city that never sleeps,
the bones of my chest thrumming
like taxi cabs in the streets,
my fingers shaking
in want for comfort and solace
i am not standing
in lorca's vomiting crowd-
i am his vomiting crowd,
looking high and low
and between my clenched fists
for catharsis and purification,
for the reason of this illness
pressed against my skin,
for the indefinable sickness
i drown in like bubbles of spit
day in and day out.
i fear the restraints
i've placed for myself,
that they may not be there
or are not in fact real.
i am caught within a sticking web
of decaying sweetness,
coney island's cotton candy,
yet it is not a trap.
i am afraid of love
and that it holds me back.
i am afraid of love
because i am used to skin on skin,
when the drum beats meet.
i am afraid of love
because it is so far stretched
over these thousand miles,
that i fear it mig
the commutei keep your kiss
under my bed:
i won't lose it
just because you aren't here.
i will hesitate in the spaces
between the weeks
we are together,
and we are
i will write you letters
and gaps and commas
when my head stops spinning
and my pride takes a bow
to the lion of my heart,
and feel the stinging air
seep out of its balloon.
put your (love) affairs in order, dear
and find me under your blankets;
i want the places i know best
to be the ones made of skin,
secretly tucked away
in the crook of your elbow
where my body rests, or
behind your ear,
like a pencil-
i want you to write me words
that make me start to hum.
the saturday after your birthday is where i foundbefore you there was an incessant need to be touched
but for no longer than the time it took to touch, sweat, and moan
and never by the same hands twice;
for vacancies to be filled
and to never have an empty bed when sleep finally came.
when i found you it was dark and i was drunk.
it wasn't a story built for the centuries,
but we will be the lovers whose names are remembered for the years to come,
tied and woven in song and into the bodies of trees, we will be so in love
that the angels above will cry in jealousy because in my haze,
heavy and raw and with everything burning inside me, i'm afraid i fell in love that night.
being against you was not enough
i needed you on me-in me-everywhere i turned you needed to be there
no space between my body and yours no air
just skin and skin and skin and
movements rough enough to catch soft sweaters like dry elbows
i needed you to be so entwined with me that we breathed in sync.
our hearts opened and closed in a symphony, chords not harmonies, t
things i don't know about you that bother me thati wonder what it's like
to fall asleep beside you
in a post coital haze,
and to wake in the morning
to run to class.
do you wake me,
do you kiss my forehead,
do we make love again-
i don't know,
and do you wet your toothbrush
before applying toothpaste,
tell me you don't leave the sink running,
it must get awfully tired.
and what do you dream of
when i lie next to you,
blissfully more than just a body;
what will you dream of
a year from now?
please tell me i can fit into
your big picture
as easily as i can fit into
my first drunk poemwriters write whilst drunk
because every word
fumbled and smisspelled
comes out beautifully
because of the truth it holds
my ear bleeds from constant burns
and my stomach burns from constant bleeds
because beauty is never enough untouched, it seems,
the way anything i put in me is always too much.
i bled and evoked sympathy tonight.
i drank until i needed a body to stand me straight.
my organs writhed like heathens in moonlight ritual
and i let it shake.
i shook to be honest
but i was never honest enough
to admit from where the vibration came.
i shook with fear
and never, ever being adequate
or even happy
but i smiled and let everyone know
that i felt like myself,
and no one ever needed to know
that the only reason i felt so honest
was because i never feel like i can
stand on my own two feet unaided
or stop from trembling
or hold in outbursts of emotion
because if i do,
i know i'll break.
scattered grassrootsi am the great plains-
i begin losing my hair and
i am tumbleweeds lost in the wind,
tumultuous dust storms
from the dryness i leave you in.
this becomes my skin.
i miss having someone
to tell i love,
but the ache it left in my bones,
deserts and sands,
is reminder enough
that fond remembrance
doesn't mean it's
virgin culturethere's a little more to love than lust
and a little more to a person than a label.
you can try to sum me up in five words or less and you'll find those words,
but you won't be able to reduce me to them.
you can't turn me into something that can be thrust,
down the grapevine
when there's something more to me than the colour of my eyes or the size of my chest.
and that's something we could all do with remembering.
but this is the culture we were born into.
where the length of your hair is more important than the sincerity of your words,
and nothing matters as much as the kardashians' latest scandal or talking some hot chick into bed.
i'm nineteen. i understand. but i'm frequently finding myself writhing in my own reassurance that i exist.
my name is melissa, i am a liberal, college-going female who doesn't remember what her own house looks like but remembers her childhood telephone number
and i'm not sure if that's ok. is it normal, am i the only one in this goddamn world wh
spoiled little girli have turned my body
into a void
so that i can love
instead of my heart.
i feel nothing
so i feel nothing
but your skin has not
in a week
and it has me
loves completely vanilla,
though there once were poems
of red clay and sun;
kisses with no ridges
and i cannot seem to
find a way to stay captivated;
touches when i cannot remember,
so i run
when i see the silhouette of his face,
like nightlights or fireflies
of a dark room
i seem to have almost
i think you have spoiled me terribly
because i feel nothing
and kiss no one
and no one
has touched me
on certain occassions fallacies exist for a reason[innocent is a synonym for boring
innocence is a symptom of ennui]
i'm not in the not in the not in the
to be the knot in the noose: loose
unhinged. disjointed. you know:
you know the drill & you know
the drill in my head is always
impaling my skull & you know
there is no difference between
this psychosis & you. no. i am
at best your greatest parachute
(if you fall into the abyss of my
mind, you shall float, as gently
as a feather in the wind) i am a
zephyr at worst: a tornado sans
entropy. i am the #1 cause of a
broken heart & most dangerous
catalyst since 1991. more fuel?
fuel, for what? fuel
for an aching heart
(ima hack ima hack
ima hack my wrists
which is what hacks
do) all of them do it
(i am a hack, hack, a hack
hacking up my irony lungs)
blacking up my exxon & i
mean blacking out my eye
really mean i don't mean a
thing i say & i say nothing,
nothing but when, but i'm
not in the not in the mood
innocent is a synonym for
a confession1. in eleventh grade, our teacher told us disney was fucked up. she showed us some video where all these little girls said they felt bad for belle, but if she had listened to beast, she would be okay. she should let him hit her so they would be okay. so they could get married. but then all i could think of was how i remembered ariel gave up her fins and her voice for some boy. and all i could think of was how fucked up it was i would give my legs up for you, too, like i was used to strapping them to your thighs. that i learned not to speak, but move and wail. and that’s what love was.
2. meeting you was kind of like meeting that part of myself i had forgotten. like i’d dropped you when i was walking to class one day. then i came back to you, through the arbor of the rain, soaking wet and on my knees, begging, my hair and eyes a collection of weakness and water. and you were a new kind of jesus, complete with blue jeans and a crooked smile, nailed to the bed, your halo a pil
on giving a fuckthere were more excuses
than there was sincerity
it is easier to blame
the gods or your father
than to accept the fact
you're an asshole.
last summer was sweet
with peanut butter & jelly,
your beautiful head on my
the girl who said that
i was so smart and pretty, and
she admired me because i really
didn't give a fuck about any of it.
she was wrong-
i give more fucks than
my hands can handle,
where to put them, who to
give them to?
so now i have a nice pile of fucks
in my room.
it is why i don't clean
it is why my father yells at me
they do not smell, and you cannot see them,
but the fucks no one will accept
are killing me-
there used to be a time when there
were never any excuses. there was
i have forgotten how that sounds-
i walk the aisles at the store
and count off the fibonacci sequence
to keep my carefully calculated face
i want to be that boy i loved with blue-skinned jeans and long sleeves,
smirks the size of last night's lipstick and
crystals in his eyes the shape of black and blue
that boy who would look me in the eye
and stare me down, size me down when my eyes rocked
like broken mahogany of twin ships to the crook of his jaw-
and just for once
i want to take him down-
take down his bony shoulders and golden eyes
like a cat's, his hands like kitchen burns to my back,
his breath like the remnants of burned wood in a fire
smoking down the crook of my neck,
and just for once
i want to be that boy i loved
that took me down-
hold the collars of his bones between my fingers and say
with the same viral fervor-
how to: be unbreakableif there were such thing as you and i
we would be just like those stupid kids
we would hear about on tv, complete with the abhor
of moving bodies to breaths and the sweet
smoke of voices to the back of our necks
saying breathe, breathe,
and tonight you would have been that girl
who took that place between my neck, my shoulders and spine
and spoke with words fitting to the best shakespeare, plato
and socrates, your nails scratching down the bones in my back,
your lips tight, raw, and kissed almost skinless whispering:
breathe, breathe, breathe,
and i would have died under your grip young,
not a figment of what i once was,
and under the gasp stolen from my own grip
you will tell me about those kinds of days when
we were fifteen, under the type of moonshine
you would only get when you were fifteen,
where we would sit by the lake for hours,
our skin a wrinkled mess under the water,
the moon drowning in the ripples of the dock-
kissing the bride of your shoulders, the crown
of your neck und
on skimming the surfacedear ex-lovers,
dear ex-friends, dear little brother,
i have taken all the posters down and my room is a skeleton.
i wonder why you are sad and i am not.
i have taken time and care to grow into these walls
to plant memories here, first fuck
first sleepless night, first question of suicide,
i have collected bones-
here see them in my closet-
i have broken them all.
love was not strong enough to keep me here,
and love is not strong enough, after
it's hard to love a trainwreckNote to self: Do not fall.
apart. Do not fall in love
with a Scientologist. Do
not let a coin make life-
changing decisions. Do
not listen to the leaves,
or to Honest Abe; he
says Heads, but I say
Tails. Do not listen to
the Devil on your left
shoulder; shrug your
right one, but do not
listen to the angel,
either. Do not listen
to your libido; listen
to your heart, even
when you're going
deaf. Do not listen
to The All-American
you're depressed. Do not
listen to this. Do not take
my advice. Do not take a
chance. Do not take two
pills. Do not take Physics;
do not take out the trash.
Do not take out all of this
on your boyfriend. Do not
take the easy way out; it
is not worth the pain. Do
not take that which does
not belong to you; do not
take candy from babies. I
am a baby&you're candy.
Do not take off the week;
do not take off your shirt;
do not take off.
maybe you never belonged to meI can still feel the weight of your lips on the curve of my collarbone. Sometimes, it feels paralyzing, crushing, absolute. Sometimes, it feels like home. Like everything.
I once heard that when you can't fall asleep it means you're awake in someone else's dream. I wonder which one of us was dreaming that night, because everything was too quiet, too easy, too perfect. You used to fall asleep next to me, your body curled against mine. It's a warmth that's not easy to forget. A hidden smile tucked into pillows and sheets. It's easy to think these things will last forever when you're tangled up together. For me, the strings of my life will always be tangled up in yours. Forever tied to you. No matter hard they attempt to fray. To fall apart. To sever.
It's snowing for the first time this year. Soft and gentle, glittering in the sunlight, falling in large flakes, easy and quiet – nothing at all like the storm that rages inside of me, turning up the corners of my heart, throwing shrapnel
on what this really means, sweetheartwith little time to take
what is mine, there is a small
mouse with strong ears and tired eyes
in its burrow. he tunnels deeper and finds
with each layer removed he is closer to the
center of the earth, it is not something so
just as the milky way does not see new york city
but sees the way that it shines. the galaxy is a gentle garden
made of gelatin, dust, and gulps of god, and gusts, small balls of
cream that roll easy down the intestine and through the bowels revealing:
this is why i am here!- which is no closer to the real
answer to the real question anyway.
just as the great American city does not see the heavens,
but sees the way that they shine.
all answers are questions, too.
all questions are answers, anyway.
the teapot and its steam both containers
the woman is infinite in her expanding power.
the mouse burrows closer to the center
of the earth, his universe is triumphantly
the woman and her man create this similar effect.
what i am talking
sleeping dogslet sleeping dogs lie-
do not reach out &
touch his dreaming face,
do not lean close to kiss
his shuttered eyelids;
wait for him to wake &
let time pass
until it is time to love him.
let him rest his weary head
on the arms he wears at home,
cold boston winds
telling him when the
next train comes;
& when he must sleep
in a rusting missouri,
wish him the sweetest dreams.
let sleeping dogs lie
& drift between sleep & awake,
missouri & boston & virginia.
let him sleep unencumbered
& be there endlessly
until it is time to love him.
I Belong To You I hate rain. Not really, I love it. Just not when the most beautiful, perfect, wonderful, perfect, comfortable, waterproof, perfect coat in existence has been savagely butchered by my so-called friend’s Dalmatian. Every slap of rain on my naked arms is a stinging reminder of the irreparable hole in my wardrobe.
Some people might try to fill the void with lesser coats but I can’t bring myself to betray Valentino, even after her death. Instead my slippery arms grapple with each other in wet shock as I stumble to the op shop, clinging to one last thread of hope. I know in my deadened heart that I’ll never have another coat like her. Yet here I am, blundering through the elements in my vain search for the acceptance and warmth I found wrapped in Valentino’s woollen sleeves.
Thud. My body slams into the door, making the ‘open’ sign quiver and the bells tinkle in offense. I fight for entry, the door’s assault doubled by the stale funk of
Keep in Touch!
^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