gabrielle-f - Hello Poetry

I used to curl my body up small and write poetry in the kitchen heartwater cresting in my eyes, ***** smoke crawling upward from between narrow fingers and blooming open against the ceiling like silver flowers, ashes on the table, teeth like bone berries in my mouth red and sour cloaked in cooking wine heart bleating, losing heat and composure in the icy swaddle of bluewinter afternoon lastlight continuing the crazed scrawl onward into the black hours of morning arched over pages like a mother or raven or predator or gargoyle shrouding my prize: my vicious poetry my hopeless meandering prose

0

Aug 5, 2012

Aug 5, 2012 at 1:56 PM UTC

nineteen 3

I used to curl my body up small and write poetry in the kitchen heartwater cresting in my eyes, ***** smoke crawling upward from between narrow fingers and blooming open against the ceiling like silver flowers, ashes on the table, teeth like bone berries in my mouth red and sour cloaked in cooking wine heart bleating, losing heat and composure in the icy swaddle of bluewinter afternoon lastlight continuing the crazed scrawl onward into the black hours of morning arched over pages like a mother or raven or predator or gargoyle shrouding my prize: my vicious poetry my hopeless meandering prose

21

The Pigs symbolize for me now the hell that was the year that just fell away a year now spent and in ruins dropped off like a golden husk dead cobra flesh summer sugared flakes of skin, torn with teeth from a wintered mouth The Pigs were an omen on that day last January day of first blizzard and weather churn, sleet and howling, first day of white knuckles and prickling thighs, first day of numb chins and jowls, thick and gummy feeling against hands dead and uncovered in the back of a grisly pickup truck The Pigs came into existence, piled ten feet high and fifteen long, bodies jutting stiff and macabre reaching for the sky, blank and indifferent. I remember being disturbed by their enormous heads and the way the ice formed a crust over their bodies binding them one to another-snout to useless *** milky underbelly to back creating not a pile but a mass. Somewhat globular. I watched mesmerized by them in their sorrowful death bed, gliding over black ice down that empty leg of highway, black beautiful forests woven into color hungry sky and chalky fields on all sides devouring sound I felt numb and small on the back of that prairie stretch In my blacks and my wools, gut colored scarf around my throat Stuffed into my panting mouth Breath freezing to the yarn and to my lips Cold wet song escaping me -my protest against the freeze that held me Music about wolves against my ears-the haunting lyrics Stumbled upon by a man with ancient desires, the need for Animal blood, stone dwellings and strong women This collage woven by the senses Became me in that moment For me a holy moment-every piece of me engaged and Acute Body clenched, mind awhirl, ears ringing, eyes filled with white And then The Pigs whipped past me-in their resting place of crusted steel and chipping Paint, their eyes clenched like hundreds of tiny fists, Their mouths open and crookedly petrified around the last breath of their lifesong Their flesh as pink as the day they were born Their minds and organs preserved by the patient hands of Manitoba winter The smell of death was imagined then-I was Stricken by the harsh, wet scent of flesh Against the back of my throat it lingered for only a moment In that moment I was complete I blinked and The Pigs were beyond me-one hundred miles an hour to nowhere beautiful And I was left with a sense of awe and a thousand questions Death riding my thoughts Hand against my padded heart I moved forward in time-caught my ride Which followed the tracks gouged by The ***** pick-up for a little while Something small and true stirring within me Protected beneath all of my meticulous layers A new awareness of something dark and curious in the world.

0

Feb 3, 2012

Feb 3, 2012 at 2:57 PM UTC

The Pigs

The Pigs symbolize for me now the hell that was the year that just fell away a year now spent and in ruins dropped off like a golden husk dead cobra flesh summer sugared flakes of skin, torn with teeth from a wintered mouth The Pigs were an omen on that day last January day of first blizzard and weather churn, sleet and howling, first day of white knuckles and prickling thighs, first day of numb chins and jowls, thick and gummy feeling against hands dead and uncovered in the back of a grisly pickup truck The Pigs came into existence, piled ten feet high and fifteen long, bodies jutting stiff and macabre reaching for the sky, blank and indifferent. I remember being disturbed by their enormous heads and the way the ice formed a crust over their bodies binding them one to another-snout to useless *** milky underbelly to back creating not a pile but a mass. Somewhat globular. I watched mesmerized by them in their sorrowful death bed, gliding over black ice down that empty leg of highway, black beautiful forests woven into color hungry sky and chalky fields on all sides devouring sound I felt numb and small on the back of that prairie stretch In my blacks and my wools, gut colored scarf around my throat Stuffed into my panting mouth Breath freezing to the yarn and to my lips Cold wet song escaping me -my protest against the freeze that held me Music about wolves against my ears-the haunting lyrics Stumbled upon by a man with ancient desires, the need for Animal blood, stone dwellings and strong women This collage woven by the senses Became me in that moment For me a holy moment-every piece of me engaged and Acute Body clenched, mind awhirl, ears ringing, eyes filled with white And then The Pigs whipped past me-in their resting place of crusted steel and chipping Paint, their eyes clenched like hundreds of tiny fists, Their mouths open and crookedly petrified around the last breath of their lifesong Their flesh as pink as the day they were born Their minds and organs preserved by the patient hands of Manitoba winter The smell of death was imagined then-I was Stricken by the harsh, wet scent of flesh Against the back of my throat it lingered for only a moment In that moment I was complete I blinked and The Pigs were beyond me-one hundred miles an hour to nowhere beautiful And I was left with a sense of awe and a thousand questions Death riding my thoughts Hand against my padded heart I moved forward in time-caught my ride Which followed the tracks gouged by The ***** pick-up for a little while Something small and true stirring within me Protected beneath all of my meticulous layers A new awareness of something dark and curious in the world.

74

the forgiveness came suddenly like the break of a day so bright and so hot in springtime mess, like that first blazing lashing of sunshine so brazen upon wintered flesh upon skin, gentle like the sound of a lamb’s feet on soft mud, skin, white and cool as milk. it came with a perfect and welcomed brutality- burning slowly, definitely, defiantly. forgiveness came, so enormous with sadness- a sense of loss profound as the bruised velveteen of a sky ripe with summer heat and the full, squeaky sound of june-happy, beer-drunk teenagers biting one another’s lips in dewy fields. the forgiveness came so clear it tasted in my mouth like penny bile. it pulled in my heart like a small perfect spoon pulls through honey sat uncovered three days too long on a windowsill the ripples folding over themselves slowly, grey and golden with sugar. the forgiveness changed me right then, as the loss of you changed me before. it struck me. it was holy. it carved something smaller, newer, smoother out of this life. a glimpse of my core was revealed then. the perfect part of me-the finest grain the purest fragrance most sensual to the touch my core-what I grew from, what my life swirls around my core-what breaks light into fractals, what is heavy for it’s size what is pure and secret in me through this forgiveness is unveiled for the first time since I was born.

0

Feb 3, 2012

Feb 3, 2012 at 2:49 PM UTC

forgiveness song

the forgiveness came suddenly like the break of a day so bright and so hot in springtime mess, like that first blazing lashing of sunshine so brazen upon wintered flesh upon skin, gentle like the sound of a lamb’s feet on soft mud, skin, white and cool as milk. it came with a perfect and welcomed brutality- burning slowly, definitely, defiantly. forgiveness came, so enormous with sadness- a sense of loss profound as the bruised velveteen of a sky ripe with summer heat and the full, squeaky sound of june-happy, beer-drunk teenagers biting one another’s lips in dewy fields. the forgiveness came so clear it tasted in my mouth like penny bile. it pulled in my heart like a small perfect spoon pulls through honey sat uncovered three days too long on a windowsill the ripples folding over themselves slowly, grey and golden with sugar. the forgiveness changed me right then, as the loss of you changed me before. it struck me. it was holy. it carved something smaller, newer, smoother out of this life. a glimpse of my core was revealed then. the perfect part of me-the finest grain the purest fragrance most sensual to the touch my core-what I grew from, what my life swirls around my core-what breaks light into fractals, what is heavy for it’s size what is pure and secret in me through this forgiveness is unveiled for the first time since I was born.

48

the cold and the snow hang above in giant monochrome lungs that sag and are filled with fluid halfway to crystal: clouds that devour themselves and spit themselves back out quietly above us. we wait for the grand purge. the throwdown of winter's hands. the release of copious white. the gentle unfold of sloping blankets and ice expanding in every concrete vein. we wait for the wind that has teeth in it's mouth and a deep throat. a wind that grew fierce rolling fitfully across aching prairie miles. it is nearly december and every day we wonder about the impending deep freeze. we consider (eyes cast warily upward) the fist of mid-January noon, the subtle split of lips and chapped hands, boots gnawed by salt spilled raw on the streets, necks and legs and fingers and feet put away until spring- swaddled in flannel wool goosedown cotton tightly wound until all curvature is lost. how we will shuffle penny-eyed between pockets of warmth, curled into ourselves in protection of our hearts that rattle sweetly beneath every binding layer, buried in a six month breadth of silence.

0

Nov 10, 2010

Nov 10, 2010 at 6:31 PM UTC

Late.

the cold and the snow hang above in giant monochrome lungs that sag and are filled with fluid halfway to crystal: clouds that devour themselves and spit themselves back out quietly above us. we wait for the grand purge. the throwdown of winter's hands. the release of copious white. the gentle unfold of sloping blankets and ice expanding in every concrete vein. we wait for the wind that has teeth in it's mouth and a deep throat. a wind that grew fierce rolling fitfully across aching prairie miles. it is nearly december and every day we wonder about the impending deep freeze. we consider (eyes cast warily upward) the fist of mid-January noon, the subtle split of lips and chapped hands, boots gnawed by salt spilled raw on the streets, necks and legs and fingers and feet put away until spring- swaddled in flannel wool goosedown cotton tightly wound until all curvature is lost. how we will shuffle penny-eyed between pockets of warmth, curled into ourselves in protection of our hearts that rattle sweetly beneath every binding layer, buried in a six month breadth of silence.

31

the cold and the snow hang above in giant monochrome lungs that sag and are filled with fluid halfway to crystal: clouds that devour themselves and spit themselves back out quietly above us. we wait for the grand purge. the throwdown of winter's hands. the release of copious white. the gentle unfold of sloping blankets and ice expanding in every concrete vein. we wait for the wind that has teeth in it's mouth and a deep throat. a wind that grew fierce rolling fitfully across aching prairie miles. it is nearly december and every day we wonder about the impending deep freeze. we consider (eyes cast warily upward) the fist of mid-January noon, the subtle split of lips and chapped hands, boots gnawed by salt spilled raw on the streets, necks and legs and fingers and feet put away until spring- swaddled in flannel wool goosedown cotton tightly wound until all curvature is lost. how we will shuffle penny-eyed between pockets of warmth, curled into ourselves in protection of our hearts that rattle sweetly beneath every binding layer, buried in a six month breadth of silence.

0

Nov 10, 2010

Nov 10, 2010 at 6:30 PM UTC

Late.

the cold and the snow hang above in giant monochrome lungs that sag and are filled with fluid halfway to crystal: clouds that devour themselves and spit themselves back out quietly above us. we wait for the grand purge. the throwdown of winter's hands. the release of copious white. the gentle unfold of sloping blankets and ice expanding in every concrete vein. we wait for the wind that has teeth in it's mouth and a deep throat. a wind that grew fierce rolling fitfully across aching prairie miles. it is nearly december and every day we wonder about the impending deep freeze. we consider (eyes cast warily upward) the fist of mid-January noon, the subtle split of lips and chapped hands, boots gnawed by salt spilled raw on the streets, necks and legs and fingers and feet put away until spring- swaddled in flannel wool goosedown cotton tightly wound until all curvature is lost. how we will shuffle penny-eyed between pockets of warmth, curled into ourselves in protection of our hearts that rattle sweetly beneath every binding layer, buried in a six month breadth of silence.

31

Oh sister, growing fiercely from between the cracks of those big city sidewalks I know you love the new-found sparkle on your pointed shoulder, your shoulder now chiseled by a place rough and dripping glamor, you have been gobbled up by a culture booming and ravenous for new blood you have been swept away and intoxicated by the strangeness and the newness and the heartlessness of that place. but don't forget us girl, we your family of patient prairie dwellers don't forget this humble, ***** city, this heartsoil these winters are what made you so strong big city baby don't forget our cold season the way the winter hems us in and forces us to make art and get real the way that our faces grow white, eyes grow dark and humble, hands curl and stiffen clenching at nothing for months the way these hearts and souls, nestled in ghost orchid flesh, nestled in snow, grow fat and red blooming carelessly like the open mouths of winter flowers

0

Nov 10, 2010

Nov 10, 2010 at 6:22 PM UTC

big city thoughts on our winter flowers

Oh sister, growing fiercely from between the cracks of those big city sidewalks I know you love the new-found sparkle on your pointed shoulder, your shoulder now chiseled by a place rough and dripping glamor, you have been gobbled up by a culture booming and ravenous for new blood you have been swept away and intoxicated by the strangeness and the newness and the heartlessness of that place. but don't forget us girl, we your family of patient prairie dwellers don't forget this humble, ***** city, this heartsoil these winters are what made you so strong big city baby don't forget our cold season the way the winter hems us in and forces us to make art and get real the way that our faces grow white, eyes grow dark and humble, hands curl and stiffen clenching at nothing for months the way these hearts and souls, nestled in ghost orchid flesh, nestled in snow, grow fat and red blooming carelessly like the open mouths of winter flowers

38

there is something tragic about the young. there is something haunting about the slope of a young man’s browning neck. his neck and those sweet earlobes and the tremor and clench of his thoughts provoking him and tension bleeding quietly through the tissue and muscle and precious bone. there is something tragic about the young. men, how they break out of one neediness and into another…. i had this lover who hated women he hated women because his mother hated him. when he told me this i decided i would forever keep my heart away from him, he was dangerous and full of fear and full of this need to destroy. he needed to ruin. he needed to tear into something tender and pure and foolishly expectant and pour all of his darkness into the frayed, howling gap. suddenly he needed something in my slightness, my body whiteclad and open and unbroken ... one spring cold with persistence i forgot about that promise to myself when for some reason i felt so ugly and then yes he ripped, ripped softly into me.

0

Oct 5, 2010

Oct 5, 2010 at 9:05 AM UTC

jaw bone. lip stain on the jaw bone of your lover.

there is something tragic about the young. there is something haunting about the slope of a young man’s browning neck. his neck and those sweet earlobes and the tremor and clench of his thoughts provoking him and tension bleeding quietly through the tissue and muscle and precious bone. there is something tragic about the young. men, how they break out of one neediness and into another…. i had this lover who hated women he hated women because his mother hated him. when he told me this i decided i would forever keep my heart away from him, he was dangerous and full of fear and full of this need to destroy. he needed to ruin. he needed to tear into something tender and pure and foolishly expectant and pour all of his darkness into the frayed, howling gap. suddenly he needed something in my slightness, my body whiteclad and open and unbroken ... one spring cold with persistence i forgot about that promise to myself when for some reason i felt so ugly and then yes he ripped, ripped softly into me.

21

Foolheartybeerdrinkingsunohfahgun. “watch your mouth young man” reigning in those eyes (as falsely blue and pristine as a pool in the warm and syrup stain sticky sweet drudgery of the deep north end. children wading through the spots hot like the inside of skin vanilla icecream creaming down their wrists in rivulets and popsicles the shape and color of a dream rocket dripping- tiny neon red and patriot blue clouds bloom beneath the surface of the urban pond dripulet, dripulet, dripulet) I can just tell your mother warned those lips with a quivering finger and a voice clipped and heavy teeth crunching around the easy threats tossed at you: your knees raw as if scrubbed with steel wool and the lingering bitterness of backtalk and your first ***** word lay soft and white like moss or foam on the back of your tongue... I can tell you gripped handfuls of braid in your hands at the playground and confessed love your whole life using destruction as a vessel. you tore out of your mother and tore and tore through childhood gripping and clawing and pulling heart constricting small and fierce the whole time like a fist in your chest.

0

Oct 4, 2010

Oct 4, 2010 at 6:23 PM UTC

bar man

Foolheartybeerdrinkingsunohfahgun. “watch your mouth young man” reigning in those eyes (as falsely blue and pristine as a pool in the warm and syrup stain sticky sweet drudgery of the deep north end. children wading through the spots hot like the inside of skin vanilla icecream creaming down their wrists in rivulets and popsicles the shape and color of a dream rocket dripping- tiny neon red and patriot blue clouds bloom beneath the surface of the urban pond dripulet, dripulet, dripulet) I can just tell your mother warned those lips with a quivering finger and a voice clipped and heavy teeth crunching around the easy threats tossed at you: your knees raw as if scrubbed with steel wool and the lingering bitterness of backtalk and your first ***** word lay soft and white like moss or foam on the back of your tongue... I can tell you gripped handfuls of braid in your hands at the playground and confessed love your whole life using destruction as a vessel. you tore out of your mother and tore and tore through childhood gripping and clawing and pulling heart constricting small and fierce the whole time like a fist in your chest.

7

this game is not okay with me anymore. you animal i am tired. i am tired of the antique glimmer in your eyes. boyish and hunting and thirsty with instinct. i am tired of the bones that jut through your flesh and carve into mine. your knotted, silky figure drifting and catching in the macrame nets through the mammoth doorways beneath the swelling curtains in my mind you are an insect or a wisp of frozen breath or an actor sweeping the floor with his eyelashes at the end of a brilliant and terrifying performance.

0

Jul 20, 2010

Jul 20, 2010 at 9:58 PM UTC

heartbroken a little.

this game is not okay with me anymore. you animal i am tired. i am tired of the antique glimmer in your eyes. boyish and hunting and thirsty with instinct. i am tired of the bones that jut through your flesh and carve into mine. your knotted, silky figure drifting and catching in the macrame nets through the mammoth doorways beneath the swelling curtains in my mind you are an insect or a wisp of frozen breath or an actor sweeping the floor with his eyelashes at the end of a brilliant and terrifying performance.

21

you said it happened while you were slicing lemons, in the back room or that it happened and the sensation hit you ...like the scent of citrus, exploding like spit and light from the pocked yellow body and you understood me then and my quiet fire and you buckled under your own weight mouth cupping an invisible star eyes vacant and holy its about time you realized the teeth and the bristle and the fist of this love.

0

Jun 13, 2010

Jun 13, 2010 at 10:43 AM UTC

epephonee.

you said it happened while you were slicing lemons, in the back room or that it happened and the sensation hit you ...like the scent of citrus, exploding like spit and light from the pocked yellow body and you understood me then and my quiet fire and you buckled under your own weight mouth cupping an invisible star eyes vacant and holy its about time you realized the teeth and the bristle and the fist of this love.

23