anastasia-webb - Hello Poetry

i love the taste of cigarettes in your mouth and your long musician's fingernails; your opposable thumbs your clear blue eyes your dreadlocks between my fingers your smile "you're gorgeous". the foggy windows of the car & the dense air between us. i gave you hickeys and a hard on, and after, the water you gave me tasted slightly of energy drink. you told me to go home, ********** go to sleep, because i wanted to kiss you and kiss you and kiss you and remember the taste of your mouth.

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Aug 22, 2016

Aug 22, 2016 at 1:51 AM UTC

will

i love the taste of cigarettes in your mouth and your long musician's fingernails; your opposable thumbs your clear blue eyes your dreadlocks between my fingers your smile "you're gorgeous". the foggy windows of the car & the dense air between us. i gave you hickeys and a hard on, and after, the water you gave me tasted slightly of energy drink. you told me to go home, ********** go to sleep, because i wanted to kiss you and kiss you and kiss you and remember the taste of your mouth.

18

last time we made love. stagnant heat bitter night, the smell of petrol from the highway, the old wind out on the balcony, our open windows, our thin white curtains, our industrial city, our smogged stars. and then – our fast breathing and oh gosh, when you slipped your skull against my mouth i swear i could taste the scene: some romantic technicolour western we’d watch in our friend’s garage on their old TV. (years gone past) your hand against my skeletal cheek; our wandering minds; our palm tree resorts, our electric hollywood dream; the setted sun the golden beaches the tangerine taste in my mouth from your love, the smell of our skin. two. alone.

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Jul 26, 2015

Jul 26, 2015 at 11:09 PM UTC

Untitled

last time we made love. stagnant heat bitter night, the smell of petrol from the highway, the old wind out on the balcony, our open windows, our thin white curtains, our industrial city, our smogged stars. and then – our fast breathing and oh gosh, when you slipped your skull against my mouth i swear i could taste the scene: some romantic technicolour western we’d watch in our friend’s garage on their old TV. (years gone past) your hand against my skeletal cheek; our wandering minds; our palm tree resorts, our electric hollywood dream; the setted sun the golden beaches the tangerine taste in my mouth from your love, the smell of our skin. two. alone.

27

Writing about writing is pathetic, so instead I’ll write about that time in March when we went hiking along ridgetops and firetrails, and the sun baked the rocks hard and impassive to our boots. The orange-and-white tracks folded back upon themselves and seemed so illogical that we thought somehow we were going in circles (round the Sun we missed that one it felt like we weren’t moving) For lunch you had squished peanut butter and sardine sandwiches because you’re odd and idiosyncratic like that, and I had apples and muesli bars because I’m too lazy to make lunch at 6 in the morning. We ate on a huge rock overlooking trees and *Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds* was playing on the radio. It felt as if we were two enclosed in a small self-erected hazecloud where birds and lizards and just breeze mingles surprisingly well with John Lennon’s recollections. I remember the sun-scored rocks had stored up warmth from years of Marchdays like today, they stayed warm slightly longer than the air did. We tasted each other’s post-lunch mouths (you were sardine and kind of gross) and pretended like our hands were ants, scuttling aimlessly (we had an aim) I liked to think my fingers were all elegant and smooth as the moon. I love you and I want to make you happy here, I love you and I want you to make me happy here, i should sleep – you should sleep – we should sleep together. I still remember that Marchday when we went hiking and I’ve written about it dozens of times before in different modes with other characters but to be honest I don’t want to write about anything else.

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Nov 18, 2014

Nov 18, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC

To Unimitate

Writing about writing is pathetic, so instead I’ll write about that time in March when we went hiking along ridgetops and firetrails, and the sun baked the rocks hard and impassive to our boots. The orange-and-white tracks folded back upon themselves and seemed so illogical that we thought somehow we were going in circles (round the Sun we missed that one it felt like we weren’t moving) For lunch you had squished peanut butter and sardine sandwiches because you’re odd and idiosyncratic like that, and I had apples and muesli bars because I’m too lazy to make lunch at 6 in the morning. We ate on a huge rock overlooking trees and *Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds* was playing on the radio. It felt as if we were two enclosed in a small self-erected hazecloud where birds and lizards and just breeze mingles surprisingly well with John Lennon’s recollections. I remember the sun-scored rocks had stored up warmth from years of Marchdays like today, they stayed warm slightly longer than the air did. We tasted each other’s post-lunch mouths (you were sardine and kind of gross) and pretended like our hands were ants, scuttling aimlessly (we had an aim) I liked to think my fingers were all elegant and smooth as the moon. I love you and I want to make you happy here, I love you and I want you to make me happy here, i should sleep – you should sleep – we should sleep together. I still remember that Marchday when we went hiking and I’ve written about it dozens of times before in different modes with other characters but to be honest I don’t want to write about anything else.

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as a lock i am content. smooth metallic surface skin (perfect shiny smooth so i smile) mechanics behind eyes mouths hands ankles special functions each. i feel content with my place, i feel satisfied with my perceptions, i am fulfilling my daily roles, my existence is justified, i feel physically full – not from the stomach but from the guts, not with food but with blood like a rush-reaction heating up, flushing red like my lips after what we did on my bed on saturday (always slightly on edge with our programmed satellite ears extended out in case some innocent wandered in) everything in its right place my plodding daily satisfaction (to satisfy mysthesystemelf) no happy hours but happy days, healthy children, healthy lifestyle feeling pure and therefore proper and therefore all is well. i repeat. all is well. i woke up today turned on the coffee giant poured a cup, drank the tar pleasantly surprised by a peck on the cheek from my husband_ kids sent off to school_ stayed at home all day_ husband off to work_ came home, he came home_ i had a lovely day, thank you, obligatory post-dinner *** and as a lock i am content.

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Nov 11, 2014

Nov 11, 2014 at 4:51 AM UTC

(2 + 2) Mentality

as a lock i am content. smooth metallic surface skin (perfect shiny smooth so i smile) mechanics behind eyes mouths hands ankles special functions each. i feel content with my place, i feel satisfied with my perceptions, i am fulfilling my daily roles, my existence is justified, i feel physically full – not from the stomach but from the guts, not with food but with blood like a rush-reaction heating up, flushing red like my lips after what we did on my bed on saturday (always slightly on edge with our programmed satellite ears extended out in case some innocent wandered in) everything in its right place my plodding daily satisfaction (to satisfy mysthesystemelf) no happy hours but happy days, healthy children, healthy lifestyle feeling pure and therefore proper and therefore all is well. i repeat. all is well. i woke up today turned on the coffee giant poured a cup, drank the tar pleasantly surprised by a peck on the cheek from my husband_ kids sent off to school_ stayed at home all day_ husband off to work_ came home, he came home_ i had a lovely day, thank you, obligatory post-dinner *** and as a lock i am content.

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so i started this poem thinking about you even though i'm not allowed to think about you anymore, even though i said i'd written my last poem about your taste, even though i've moved on, i've found another one with your name so i can change all the connotations, even though i don't even think about you that much anymore i was thinking about you now, even though you no longer interest me, not really, you're just another old event in my mind, and i hope you haven't figured out that i'm trying to change your name's connotations

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Nov 4, 2014

Nov 4, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC

#2

so i started this poem thinking about you even though i'm not allowed to think about you anymore, even though i said i'd written my last poem about your taste, even though i've moved on, i've found another one with your name so i can change all the connotations, even though i don't even think about you that much anymore i was thinking about you now, even though you no longer interest me, not really, you're just another old event in my mind, and i hope you haven't figured out that i'm trying to change your name's connotations

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Write your poems about death. (write ur emo-black-hair skinny-wrist-white-scar silent-back-of-classroom ster-e-o-type po-e-try about death) Write your overdone morbid imagery, similes (write ur unhappy-heart out-in-ink-onto-paper arteries-bleeding-out ur-blue-and-purple octopus-veins-ur ster-e-o-type po-e-try about death)

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Oct 9, 2014

Oct 9, 2014 at 7:21 AM UTC

untitled

Write your poems about death. (write ur emo-black-hair skinny-wrist-white-scar silent-back-of-classroom ster-e-o-type po-e-try about death) Write your overdone morbid imagery, similes (write ur unhappy-heart out-in-ink-onto-paper arteries-bleeding-out ur-blue-and-purple octopus-veins-ur ster-e-o-type po-e-try about death)

15

I have opened up my mouth and taken out a spare pair of butterfly wings (pinched between thumb and forefinger), used-to-be-dusty but now slightly damp from their place of residence. I dried them myself, striking match after match and holding each underneath, close, but not too close. Instead of drying they shrivelled up like petals after leaving the flower. As if to preserve warmth, curling inwards, they shivered, animated by the heat of the glowing stick. The flame got too close to my fingers. I dropped it, swearing. Pinched the wings too hard (reflexes), the membrane broke between my fingers and the remnants of freedom fluttered softly to the ground.

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Sep 27, 2014

Sep 27, 2014 at 7:06 AM UTC

Butterfly Wings

I have opened up my mouth and taken out a spare pair of butterfly wings (pinched between thumb and forefinger), used-to-be-dusty but now slightly damp from their place of residence. I dried them myself, striking match after match and holding each underneath, close, but not too close. Instead of drying they shrivelled up like petals after leaving the flower. As if to preserve warmth, curling inwards, they shivered, animated by the heat of the glowing stick. The flame got too close to my fingers. I dropped it, swearing. Pinched the wings too hard (reflexes), the membrane broke between my fingers and the remnants of freedom fluttered softly to the ground.

28

Back in touch with virtual reality, fingers caress the keyboard and the screen (the gentle, intimate touch of lovers), plugged in the earphones and became part of the circuit, electrons zipped into one ear and were discharged from the other. Put aside the world for an hour or two (lost track of time; it flies when you spend it with love interests); drowned self in a smaller / larger world of blue glowing screens and perpetual music. One thousand million songs. Free. Click. Here. Now. All you lovely strangers so much more real than real, so cool and artistic and how I wish I could write poetry like you. How I wish. Open the door and observe: the human component of a full parallel circuit. Exchange and exchange. Fixated on a blank screen. Tapping foot to invisible sound. Typing faster than would talk. Close the door. Walk away.

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Sep 27, 2014

Sep 27, 2014 at 6:48 AM UTC

Saturday

Back in touch with virtual reality, fingers caress the keyboard and the screen (the gentle, intimate touch of lovers), plugged in the earphones and became part of the circuit, electrons zipped into one ear and were discharged from the other. Put aside the world for an hour or two (lost track of time; it flies when you spend it with love interests); drowned self in a smaller / larger world of blue glowing screens and perpetual music. One thousand million songs. Free. Click. Here. Now. All you lovely strangers so much more real than real, so cool and artistic and how I wish I could write poetry like you. How I wish. Open the door and observe: the human component of a full parallel circuit. Exchange and exchange. Fixated on a blank screen. Tapping foot to invisible sound. Typing faster than would talk. Close the door. Walk away.

31

lettuce forget just for two hours that we just met and really you could be anyone, and lettuce sustain our teenage stereotypes, nourish them with our shared saliva by the fire - we are cold and soft like snow and we are happy to share our lizard tongues and lizard brains, our foolish young emotions firework in our skulls, ricocheting against the walls. sparks. earlier i watched snow drift down the chimney, slowly melt, while ash was propelled back up by hot air: neither sustained for long in new environments, in foreign air; similar up-and-down particles which i watched while our hot sweaty hands lay open like flower petals, at our sides waiting. someone had to move (i did), petals clasped together and i noticed the warmth and roughness of your hands. i smiled and continued to watch the flames.

0

Sep 25, 2014

Sep 25, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC

Snow / Memoir II

lettuce forget just for two hours that we just met and really you could be anyone, and lettuce sustain our teenage stereotypes, nourish them with our shared saliva by the fire - we are cold and soft like snow and we are happy to share our lizard tongues and lizard brains, our foolish young emotions firework in our skulls, ricocheting against the walls. sparks. earlier i watched snow drift down the chimney, slowly melt, while ash was propelled back up by hot air: neither sustained for long in new environments, in foreign air; similar up-and-down particles which i watched while our hot sweaty hands lay open like flower petals, at our sides waiting. someone had to move (i did), petals clasped together and i noticed the warmth and roughness of your hands. i smiled and continued to watch the flames.

36

I'll be eaten alive one day: one day, i see it in my mind so close to closure along an empty street late at night (owls just retired and birds not yet up), orbs of light tethered to tall electric poles cast dappled circles on cracked pavement; illumination and safety (for that two metre radius). Stepping between them like a girl child on stones across a garden, I anticipate each missed step as sinking into sand or frightful waves. Singing drunk back-alley lullabies i'll soothe the skelebabies in their sleep, their poor crusted noses snuffled against a cold shift of air (their private torment plastered over billboards with corporate logos and dim colours, suggesting the city's lights have gone out and the local government is in frantics. That is, after all, what you'd focus on) Girl child games were so tipsy and magic (and so close to real coldness); between two orbs of light i'll slip through the cracks in the pavement. THE END. (eat me alive, eat me alive, eaten alive by the wolf at the door)

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Sep 25, 2014

Sep 25, 2014 at 6:36 PM UTC

Cautionary Tale

I'll be eaten alive one day: one day, i see it in my mind so close to closure along an empty street late at night (owls just retired and birds not yet up), orbs of light tethered to tall electric poles cast dappled circles on cracked pavement; illumination and safety (for that two metre radius). Stepping between them like a girl child on stones across a garden, I anticipate each missed step as sinking into sand or frightful waves. Singing drunk back-alley lullabies i'll soothe the skelebabies in their sleep, their poor crusted noses snuffled against a cold shift of air (their private torment plastered over billboards with corporate logos and dim colours, suggesting the city's lights have gone out and the local government is in frantics. That is, after all, what you'd focus on) Girl child games were so tipsy and magic (and so close to real coldness); between two orbs of light i'll slip through the cracks in the pavement. THE END. (eat me alive, eat me alive, eaten alive by the wolf at the door)

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