darbi-howe - Hello Poetry

I hear they hoard Picasso’s like diamonds. Excess is common— escargot at a diner, Parisian no more, cheapened slime beneath industrial grade lighting. Women drawn and quartered, all cut up, chaos-con-cube hung from the wall of some split-level apartment where I hear a man hanged himself (and his children might, too*) Their bitterness licks at the paint in ordinary strokes driving down the value of, what once was, a masterpiece.

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Feb 17, 2017

Feb 17, 2017 at 5:22 PM UTC

ECON 101

I hear they hoard Picasso’s like diamonds. Excess is common— escargot at a diner, Parisian no more, cheapened slime beneath industrial grade lighting. Women drawn and quartered, all cut up, chaos-con-cube hung from the wall of some split-level apartment where I hear a man hanged himself (and his children might, too*) Their bitterness licks at the paint in ordinary strokes driving down the value of, what once was, a masterpiece.

19

“Was it the backless back of a black dress that did it?” They’ll ask, loudly even though the wolves that roam these streets are merely feigning sleep and are starving “Yes!” They will agree as drool slips from the hinge of a wolfish grin from the forked tongue of an angel “What else could she expect?” Of course they must abide by the code of the pack(of course) which is of course the root of disrespect “How obscene! How uncouth!” (how to measure human flesh) as if they could hold up her “no(s)” to his “yes” which is bigger and louder and stronger “Yes! … Yes! … Yes!” As if to them to the wolves, to the men, to the uncondemned what happened, really was for the best.

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Feb 12, 2017

Feb 12, 2017 at 8:10 PM UTC

LITTLE RED

“Was it the backless back of a black dress that did it?” They’ll ask, loudly even though the wolves that roam these streets are merely feigning sleep and are starving “Yes!” They will agree as drool slips from the hinge of a wolfish grin from the forked tongue of an angel “What else could she expect?” Of course they must abide by the code of the pack(of course) which is of course the root of disrespect “How obscene! How uncouth!” (how to measure human flesh) as if they could hold up her “no(s)” to his “yes” which is bigger and louder and stronger “Yes! … Yes! … Yes!” As if to them to the wolves, to the men, to the uncondemned what happened, really was for the best.

25

The owner bites the dog, I bit myself I think I ate my leash My psychological hand pulls the chain from my stomach, leading me into the kitchen where You are making coffee I wake up in the morning and curse you that bed, that old vessel of human broth I make it Repackaged, like new, let’s consume from within – Crisis averted Last night I dreamt of islands chasing me And I was afraid because I had deserted them You Pour me a cup of coffee I accept offering you a smile, but no gratitude, or hope While my mind gnaws at the memory of love.

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Feb 12, 2017

Feb 12, 2017 at 8:03 PM UTC

THE DOG IN THE ROOM

The owner bites the dog, I bit myself I think I ate my leash My psychological hand pulls the chain from my stomach, leading me into the kitchen where You are making coffee I wake up in the morning and curse you that bed, that old vessel of human broth I make it Repackaged, like new, let’s consume from within – Crisis averted Last night I dreamt of islands chasing me And I was afraid because I had deserted them You Pour me a cup of coffee I accept offering you a smile, but no gratitude, or hope While my mind gnaws at the memory of love.

25

Ex nihilo: you, refusing to apologize I wonder if the world that your eyes violate and consume withers painted in the colorless color that comes from mixing all colors your color. I have painted my room with you and now it is nothing, no nothing at all I yawn and I tremble Consequentially; therefore; thus; and so; - as a result the cracked walls speak of (but do not explain) Sundays thorned, tragic, unyielding; sighs of futility writ large You, on a Sunday painting the world in your color

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Oct 12, 2016

Oct 12, 2016 at 2:37 AM UTC

24

Ex nihilo: you, refusing to apologize I wonder if the world that your eyes violate and consume withers painted in the colorless color that comes from mixing all colors your color. I have painted my room with you and now it is nothing, no nothing at all I yawn and I tremble Consequentially; therefore; thus; and so; - as a result the cracked walls speak of (but do not explain) Sundays thorned, tragic, unyielding; sighs of futility writ large You, on a Sunday painting the world in your color

20

And I felt the universe explode behind my eyes. The language and thoughts and sensations that accompany such— This sea foam fever, this glassy-eyed sickness; what a beautiful horror! I shiver. This and that. The shadow of an afternoon. A Thursday. Perhaps it was imagined (that time has passed, that it happened at all) But when I wake up in the morning, Emptied of the ticking tocking melancholic howl, I know why this is so— I believe I know why this is so— Of course, to say it aloud would be suicide, and the lovers of the love of the fear prefer purgatory, and of course we do what we can to do what we do to maintain, obtain, sustain. I aim— Yes, I aim!—but not in a fulfilled sense: esse est percipi—to be is to be perceived—a foreign and welcome sensation. But put those hands away, put that look away, before I forget my— Before it is lost. Lost...? Yes, lost. My name, I believe in my name. Perhaps. To crawl to crawl to crawl inside of this warm nothingness that tastes like gold soft sweet afternoons, like driving along the coast at dawn like stopping at the gas station before the forest like the blueness between 5 and 6 pm. A truly really very steep sort of warmth. Temporal fears are so beautifully placed. Saturdays, when I take the train home through the hazing misting grayness I am happy

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Sep 21, 2016

Sep 21, 2016 at 1:21 AM UTC

Esse est percipi

And I felt the universe explode behind my eyes. The language and thoughts and sensations that accompany such— This sea foam fever, this glassy-eyed sickness; what a beautiful horror! I shiver. This and that. The shadow of an afternoon. A Thursday. Perhaps it was imagined (that time has passed, that it happened at all) But when I wake up in the morning, Emptied of the ticking tocking melancholic howl, I know why this is so— I believe I know why this is so— Of course, to say it aloud would be suicide, and the lovers of the love of the fear prefer purgatory, and of course we do what we can to do what we do to maintain, obtain, sustain. I aim— Yes, I aim!—but not in a fulfilled sense: esse est percipi—to be is to be perceived—a foreign and welcome sensation. But put those hands away, put that look away, before I forget my— Before it is lost. Lost...? Yes, lost. My name, I believe in my name. Perhaps. To crawl to crawl to crawl inside of this warm nothingness that tastes like gold soft sweet afternoons, like driving along the coast at dawn like stopping at the gas station before the forest like the blueness between 5 and 6 pm. A truly really very steep sort of warmth. Temporal fears are so beautifully placed. Saturdays, when I take the train home through the hazing misting grayness I am happy

28

It was raining and it was morning. They sat in the car underneath a tree, upon a hill, overlooking the vast cemetery below. Clichès still have the potential to be beautiful, they know. Intellectual awareness allows for understood symbolism, the death of that which dies at a cemetery, the emotional downpour demarcated by rain, the interstitial distance of looking forward and down. Silence and language working symbiotically as a stratagem to both hide and reveal vulnerability. The clichè of their location works with the conversation. He is sad. She knows. She knows the emotional location he lives within, she purposefully disregarded his eyes, those eyes that have always stared at her from the mirror, her eyes. The eyes of those with hollow love for themselves. The selfishness of selflessness, the facticity of unfortunate neurological tendencies, the self-imposed limitations. They speak. He speaks. She hears him speak, she who is devoid of empathy, she reaches empathy through his words, she hears the thesis of her own thoughts, she cries. She cries because he narrates her perception of herself, through narrating his perception of himself, and she knows the meaning of it. He cries because it is his. He looks away. He says I don't want you to know the things about me. The things that are disgusting. She loves those things. It's not enough. She knows. She talks to herself, she talks to him. She takes his hand, they cling to the ephemeral union. It stops raining. They walk into the chapel, the ashes of those who lived resting upon glass bookshelves, behind glass cases. They sit upon a couch in silence. They collapse, against each other. Two women observe the marble of the mausoleum. They arise. The women are startled. The women didn't see them sitting; they were three feet away. He takes her home. They fade into wordlessness during the drive. They look at each other with desperation at a stop sign. She says goodbye. She walks away. They walk away.

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Apr 12, 2016

Apr 12, 2016 at 3:48 AM UTC

Saturday At the Cemetery

It was raining and it was morning. They sat in the car underneath a tree, upon a hill, overlooking the vast cemetery below. Clichès still have the potential to be beautiful, they know. Intellectual awareness allows for understood symbolism, the death of that which dies at a cemetery, the emotional downpour demarcated by rain, the interstitial distance of looking forward and down. Silence and language working symbiotically as a stratagem to both hide and reveal vulnerability. The clichè of their location works with the conversation. He is sad. She knows. She knows the emotional location he lives within, she purposefully disregarded his eyes, those eyes that have always stared at her from the mirror, her eyes. The eyes of those with hollow love for themselves. The selfishness of selflessness, the facticity of unfortunate neurological tendencies, the self-imposed limitations. They speak. He speaks. She hears him speak, she who is devoid of empathy, she reaches empathy through his words, she hears the thesis of her own thoughts, she cries. She cries because he narrates her perception of herself, through narrating his perception of himself, and she knows the meaning of it. He cries because it is his. He looks away. He says I don't want you to know the things about me. The things that are disgusting. She loves those things. It's not enough. She knows. She talks to herself, she talks to him. She takes his hand, they cling to the ephemeral union. It stops raining. They walk into the chapel, the ashes of those who lived resting upon glass bookshelves, behind glass cases. They sit upon a couch in silence. They collapse, against each other. Two women observe the marble of the mausoleum. They arise. The women are startled. The women didn't see them sitting; they were three feet away. He takes her home. They fade into wordlessness during the drive. They look at each other with desperation at a stop sign. She says goodbye. She walks away. They walk away.

20

1) It puts the peanut butter on its ***** 2) Finna meat sum ******* 3) Classical conditioner 4) Pavlov ain't russian in the bathroom 5) He would never steak his reputation upon his looks 6) He met his husband on meatgrindr 7) His creepy uncle 8) Pavlov rools dogs drool 9) He was tired of being confused with Sylvia Plath 10) He needed all the leverage he could get on Skinner

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Feb 1, 2016

Feb 1, 2016 at 1:21 AM UTC

Why was Pavlov so well groomed?

1) It puts the peanut butter on its ***** 2) Finna meat sum ******* 3) Classical conditioner 4) Pavlov ain't russian in the bathroom 5) He would never steak his reputation upon his looks 6) He met his husband on meatgrindr 7) His creepy uncle 8) Pavlov rools dogs drool 9) He was tired of being confused with Sylvia Plath 10) He needed all the leverage he could get on Skinner

10

The teenagers of the bayou look down to their pocket God, summoning validation through divine vibrations; heads bowed they pray for the prey, for the sensations of meaning, refreshed each second, filed and cast aside, except on thursdays, or maybe fridays ‒ for these are the sacred days reserved for nostalgia, for last weekend’s cigarette taste, for those cheap-gin glances, lacerated by and filtered through the teeth of crocodile tears, for the lovesick night sweats and the mouth of another, for the break from chronic ennui, all captured in thirty-three unearthly flashes; The teenagers of the bayou look up from their pocket God and stretch their aching fingers upwards, exhausted, habituated, unquestioning of the heaviness of such emptiness within their starving hearts

0

Sep 12, 2015

Sep 12, 2015 at 4:23 PM UTC

The Teenagers of the Bayou

The teenagers of the bayou look down to their pocket God, summoning validation through divine vibrations; heads bowed they pray for the prey, for the sensations of meaning, refreshed each second, filed and cast aside, except on thursdays, or maybe fridays ‒ for these are the sacred days reserved for nostalgia, for last weekend’s cigarette taste, for those cheap-gin glances, lacerated by and filtered through the teeth of crocodile tears, for the lovesick night sweats and the mouth of another, for the break from chronic ennui, all captured in thirty-three unearthly flashes; The teenagers of the bayou look up from their pocket God and stretch their aching fingers upwards, exhausted, habituated, unquestioning of the heaviness of such emptiness within their starving hearts

13

Another cigarette in bed, another sleepless night. The cats have prowled, the mice are dead, and still I dread the light.

0

Sep 23, 2014

Sep 23, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC

Another