lydia-b
Northern California born 'n' raised. I come from a town with a butter 'n' eggs day parade. / / Unofficially majoring in body (as art material, as art, as modifier and modified, as home, as escape, as amusement park), bikes, big basslines, big dinners, baking, belting songs, burping, biting, binging, bitching and the like. / / I do not write enough poetry. There is probably something else I should be doing right now, anyways. I am on the internet, after all.
Amongst canyons I want to throw my body to,
Red river hunkers its belly to the ground.
I count roadkill and think
I am *****
I am wrapped in the Beast and beginning
To understand.
So I save my soil and think only of
The hills.
They open their palms and give me
Graveyards and I kiss the dust from
Their fingers.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 11:05 AM UTC
New Mexico stretches her calves against too much sky.
Her mesas are polka dotted and she’s only wearing
Red and green in her hair.
She opens her palms,
Gives us graveyards
And we kiss the dust from her palms.
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 9:23 PM UTC
Chew me fifty times, and I will go down easier.
Chew me one hundred times and your mouth
Will not remember me.
Show me your teeth, and I will not choke on my ‘bye.
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 7:54 PM UTC
I’m gonna make me a woman from your garden flesh.
I’m gonna sprout from your ribs.
I’m gonna **** your marrow dry and grow
And I hope that my bones will know your mouth too.
I hope that you taste the fertile dirt on my tongue;
It is silent, soil, and better
Than the words we do not say, but not better
Than your ribs under my flesh in Eden.
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 7:53 PM UTC
How can I wrap my weak bones around strong bodies
Forming rivulets of salt across my sheets
And down steps that will dry as soon as we stand
And leave this Indian summer air?
I am womb-fresh and shaking.
How can I tame lions when my own finger-claws
Hold the whip that flays my belly from inside out.
The back of my throat has nail marks
From all three of us.
I am a beast too, when I dare to stroke comfort
Into your hair with palms that smell like victory;
My dry cheeks are red with the upper hand.
Has my **** swallowed both your prides
With your fingers?
One month ago, beautiful,
You were spitting fire that sounded like:
“I don’t like anyone.”
Now you have laid on my floor.
You have counted three words off my claws.
And you, beautiful alchemist,
Do you know that the death under your skin
Has dripped onto mine and turned it to gold?
Please
Search the truth you crave in this flayed belly,
In this marked throat.
Dig my veins from the ground.
My gold is spent; it does not cry.
But it is so nice to be needed.
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 7:53 PM UTC
night blind but mouths
can see
i will swallow
you whole and burn your body
into my mind's eye
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 7:51 PM UTC
To be his slow-kissed painted Jesus;
To breathe only frankincense and
To **** the cross from his fingers;
To drink his Amen and answer Hallelujah;
To hang my head towards high ceilings and
Sin.
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 7:51 PM UTC
It’s true she’s been cleaning her closets.
Sweeping was never her favorite, but
Her fingers have been caressing
The handle of a broom for some time,
Chipping splinters and flinching at
Closed doors.
It’s true she cried when dust
Bloomed from hinges unmoved.
It melted black down her cheeks
And has stayed there since.
It’s true she’s been walking alone,
Trailing her splinter-laden nails and
Wading through sunshine.
Night is cold but closets are colder;
She wraps up in city sounds furred
By the dark and billowing like smoke
And thinks only I know my body now.
It’s true she could have stayed fondling
Brooms and dreaming of housewives
Straining bellies with chunks of aorta
And muttering songs over the dishes:
*Il m’a attaché à ton lit/
Une jolie petite pute soumis.*
But the throat sticks, the tune
Tasting worse by the day and
There is hope in an empty closet.
It’s true she’s been trembling less
With the world’s turning.
Winter has let go her hair and slumps
On her back with a chilly satisfaction
But she wipes the fog from her
Eyes and whispers to her flesh:
*Swallow your heart
Relish the burning
And watch spring blooms turn to jasmine.*
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 7:50 PM UTC
do not spoon sweet between her lips;
only string her from barbs left behind
by the trawl of tongues
in her throat, yours
And yours too.
tuck her in and leave her marred,
metal-mouthed
and dreaming of matadors
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 7:48 PM UTC
In New Mexico,
My toes never tasted the red mud they
Craved. Four souls in a ton of tin
chased storms
Dreaming of warpaint but
I only breathed dust.
I ran at everything with twitching fingers
and choked on dry lightning
that tasted like highway tar and ***** *****
futilities
But I licked my lips and asked for more.
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 7:43 PM UTC