alliesaurus
saving the world, one heartshake and hugjump at a time. / / She: / is (no longer) a grad. student in speech-language pathology in Maryland (who soon will be practicing the art of speech-language pathology and living in Illinois). Prefers the sound words and letters make together over their intrinsic meaning (example: teardrop, puddle, and pickle). Loves e.e. and vonnegut, and a little bit of Robert M. Sapolsky. / / http://almat.tumblr.com/
As this cream and sugar settles,
I'm stirring God into my coffee.
Like honey residue on the sides of my cup,
trickling to trick my tea leaves into leaving a softer story behind.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 7:25 PM UTC
So, here's this:
Every third breath is made by a boa constrictor.
He lives in my ribcage, you see,
and sometimes like to see what his musculature can do compared to mine.
If every night star story started with a clear light,
what would happen to cloud cover?
What would happen to all the silver linings?
I felt what you meant when you said sometimes you yearn more for a body to hold,
someone whose arms say more than their breath,
than their breadth.
Boa knew it all along,
but I've just been letting him grow and gripe.
I knew it all along, that it would feel better then worse,
as he grew he'd need more space,
he'd demand more space and take up more space.
Except I always thought space was just a place for stars,
and if you needed to moonbounce,
you always had another planet available.
Except you didn't, and I didn't know if I wanted one, or a different you.
I want bits and pieces, I want to build my own puzzle with preference,
500 pieces that are hand picked by yours truly.
A puzzle is still a puzzle if all the pieces mostly fit, right?
Even in designated cutouts, with enough use they fade,
and become questionable in their habits.
"Are you sure this goes here? These reds are not the same"
"Sure hon, it's been like that for years, it's supposed to be like that".
When do you seek your better fitting other half, though?
Boa can twine, at least. Better to be fluid and versatile, than stock and habit.
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 11:31 PM UTC
I like to read love poetry to help me fill in your outline.
Love poetry meaning,
I got my guts kicked out by a falling star the other night.
Your sweater came unraveled after a dose of moonshine.
Someone forgot to turn on the Eiffel Tower again
(they must have flipped my switch instead).
I guess what I'm trying to say is,
I'm holding myself in a continuous state of
"why can't you just take out the garbage"
and
"my garbage
(socks and kleenex and so many strands of DNA)
is all over your floor and maybe I'll pick it up later"
and
"leave it, don't touch it, so perfect, right now, even if it's ******
and
"I found this box and I want hide every remnant of any interaction and I make big messes but every Sunday is my cleaning day and I will remove every trace of you and me and socks and I and intertwined DNA"
I like it when my guts scream.
Not from the Indian food
(no thank you)
but from my imagination,
always four score and seven years of full speed ahead.
I like to think my mucosal membrane knows how to respond
when assaulted with good life intention.
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 3:48 AM UTC
Infinite.
Like how many times you can take a picture,
with your mind,
of we intertwined.
Like three chords.
Your pick.
Like each idea becoming a suggestion,
an open ended request,
like the innocence behind "inquisitive"
that is lost in "inquisition".
Like the questions I mean to ask you,
but I'm not sure you'll be listening
at that moment in time.
Stopwatch.
Dewdrop.
Like how I mean to hold
you
r hands
r heart
you.
Like the limit of the tangent of x as it approached y.
I want to curve
and parenthesize around your body.
We will diverge.
We are inverse.
We are combustable.
Aug 16, 2012
Aug 16, 2012 at 11:01 PM UTC
Weather whethers whither wow?
Picture Oregon Trail, version 2, the runaways.
A little banjo with your standstill open plain,
always waving wheatgrasses,
beckoning with wide fingertrails.
I tried to ford the river,
but my ******* oxen died.
Each breath worse than the last,
feeling filth in my bones,
dysentery behind every accidental shotgun wound.
What do you do when you know two right answers,
when everything feels correct?
Multiple choice,
multiple guess,
multiple uglies.
You touch my stereo,
volume and fingernails tune.
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 12:23 AM UTC
You are a string bean on a summer day.
Think of this- how sunbeams cross string tangles and dirt
to smother you in heat and life
(photosynthesize).
To me and beyond,
the wires and wooden support
trellis to lattice to framework to explosion,
you bear fruit and burst alive.
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 12:22 AM UTC
You've got to keep
your heart young.
So, we've got Venus.
This little babe of a planet,
always in the shadow of her big sister Earth
(she got to try everything first,
I guess that's why she has her remnants
drifter all over. Some people get *****
she got Earthlings.)
But we all know Venus was the hotter of the two.
A little more dense, sure,
but babe had curves.
She had her spotlight, though.
12 hours of high fashion runway.
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 12:21 AM UTC
Sometimes,
I miss you with such ferocious intensity
that I start to wonder if it's you I actually miss.
Perhaps, it's simply the idea of you,
or how my puzzle shelf seems to now be missing a piece.
You asked me how it was possible
for two people to be able to share such depth
and such shallow waters together.
I wasn't sure how to tell you how deep those waters went.
It's like your black, your notes, the vision of sheet music moving
once the player gives life to the sound. It's how sometimes,
you feel certain. Others, you feel a million rays of doubt and trouble
and construct that weren't made by your hands.
It's when you can't fall asleep because you're hacking up a lung,
and when John Green makes you want to cry and throw the book and pick it up and whisper
IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou.
I still haven't figured out if I'm talking to him, the book, or you. Or me.
It's when I wish you were in my bed, just so I could lean over and kiss your forehead,
with the light still on and your snores filling the room.
I'd probably take that back once your chainsaw uvula nasal passages filled the room,
but as for right now, my starfish doesn't quite tuck so neatly.
Jun 8, 2012
Jun 8, 2012 at 2:14 AM UTC
Unpacking
is a daunting task.
Take clothes, for instance.
Every slice of fabric has rubbed you raw,
taking skin cells and hair cells and a facet
of the person who you used to be.
You (and he and they and we) are layered between strings.
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC
You are intricate.
Tracing neurotransmissions down your spinal column,
from freckle to L4,
turning slow motor momentum.
It's my weighted moment,
my wordplay peachfuzz.
Silence, silencio, silent night,
simple sectors seething softly,
like a whistling tea kettle with
mutational falsetto (puberphonia).
Words are flowing,
just tripping their way around my e lin- sheath.
If I had to guess,
I would assume that neurochemical firings occur to the beat of softspoken dubstep.
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 10:58 PM UTC