j-carrollWhisper

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love in the time of modernity/ ode on a facebook walli extract poetry from your facebook chats / and tenderness from your skype calls / this: the compromise of a romantic heart

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ODE TO A SCOT[Fanfare, obviously] / This poem should begin with the call of a bugle, / as is fitting for an ode of Braveheart Macdougal.

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3.1k

if i were (a cat)when time has worn right through my skin / and tasks ahead i can’t begin / my weary brain thinks only that

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2.5k

la petite morti should never have trusted anyone with the shade / when every dandelion demands the sun / but if i held you under my chin like a buttercup

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2.4k

oil can for my tin manthe only boy i ever loved / is awake while i am sleeping / the tinman boy lives upside-down

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1.8k

renovationsi only find my solace in half rhymes and soft narcotics / and twice-sung dueled harmonics / keep my tongue between my teeth

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1.6k

dosed"what's that? you can't get out of your bed? / too weak to be alive, too lazy to be dead? / well! take your zoloft effectively

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1.2k

all will be, regardlesswhen i begin to free-wheel / and shudder with contempt / i take comfort in the thought

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1.1k

benevolent tumoreach time i see a dead man's face / i think i'd maybe known him / flirted with him in a bar perhaps

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1.1k

she springs poetryShe infects everyone around her with a longing for poetry like she was Ebola. The need climbs into you and pours itself out your eyes and ears and mouth and nose and streams out of every orifice until all you can see is seeping Neruda stanzas and oozing cummings fragments. It is agony in which you have no choice but to luxuriate. You could writhe around on beds of darling buds of May and tear out fistfuls of a host, of golden daffodils and still you are saturated with a yearning for its persistence. / She has that effect on everyone. / You are not her Moon or Stars or World.

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