marianne-louise-daniels

Ubb drunk, millionth – strange peppercorn blood shoot. I have found looking through my skin dangerous – like reading closer to a line on the edge of a book. They give me milligram feasts, balloons suspended from the slim of my bank hand. When I look out to the window, birds swim through my eyes with a message from God saying *this is where you began and we cannot change it.*

0

Dec 15, 2014

Dec 15, 2014 at 6:37 AM UTC

They will not change this place

Ubb drunk, millionth – strange peppercorn blood shoot. I have found looking through my skin dangerous – like reading closer to a line on the edge of a book. They give me milligram feasts, balloons suspended from the slim of my bank hand. When I look out to the window, birds swim through my eyes with a message from God saying *this is where you began and we cannot change it.*

12

There are more kinder ways to forget then to trace the heart of things I see so vividly on your arms, your public frightening places. I want to tell you that the lingering circumstance of your alcohol lipped kiss is not the only way to bathe, not the only way to wash the night from its gargoyles making fine young love in the streets; the buildings pressed green from your slipping absynthe hands. I want to tell you that you should eat more, you should sleep more; the worry of my touch a grind of bone turned to dust; your name lost in a piece of cloth held up to your face coughing up the evening meal. I want to say that and yet I don’t, the sneer of the mirror allowing nothing yet.

0

Mar 14, 2013

Mar 14, 2013 at 8:01 AM UTC

Tell

There are more kinder ways to forget then to trace the heart of things I see so vividly on your arms, your public frightening places. I want to tell you that the lingering circumstance of your alcohol lipped kiss is not the only way to bathe, not the only way to wash the night from its gargoyles making fine young love in the streets; the buildings pressed green from your slipping absynthe hands. I want to tell you that you should eat more, you should sleep more; the worry of my touch a grind of bone turned to dust; your name lost in a piece of cloth held up to your face coughing up the evening meal. I want to say that and yet I don’t, the sneer of the mirror allowing nothing yet.

24

More milk hearted; a timid stunt of drifts and thieves distorted, the silks of a grave surpassed - a lay unchartered, where fray and wound next glory became a khaki hill without a name. The tame of each dread root thwarted – the tip of each snapped finger larked and dipped its fever into parts of men long since lost - a thousand yards of misspent youth martyred in the frost.

0

Mar 14, 2013

Mar 14, 2013 at 5:55 AM UTC

War Quiet

More milk hearted; a timid stunt of drifts and thieves distorted, the silks of a grave surpassed - a lay unchartered, where fray and wound next glory became a khaki hill without a name. The tame of each dread root thwarted – the tip of each snapped finger larked and dipped its fever into parts of men long since lost - a thousand yards of misspent youth martyred in the frost.

12

I have met a stranger hanging from the point of nothing where no wretched parochial fashion disembowels, no fellated Pop, the prop of some, is angled in, exquisite – no, the dilation of his eyes met me on a disc of white - the hands of mine spinning the entire weight, hurtling from a place of uncontrolled proportions of nothingness and patience. I fear this place of limitation – it survives on an originality slowly disappearing from grace.

0

Mar 14, 2013

Mar 14, 2013 at 5:45 AM UTC

Idea

I have met a stranger hanging from the point of nothing where no wretched parochial fashion disembowels, no fellated Pop, the prop of some, is angled in, exquisite – no, the dilation of his eyes met me on a disc of white - the hands of mine spinning the entire weight, hurtling from a place of uncontrolled proportions of nothingness and patience. I fear this place of limitation – it survives on an originality slowly disappearing from grace.

19

They would not defend it - dangling over the gate, split nosed – the fall I watched from inside, so jealous. They would not reason it; splint in the accident of the wasp pumped crimson lip, nor my lopsided forgiveness for smacking the backs of their laughter so. They would not look away from the wind that ripped my threads of hair -oil slick - the slate of what became so readily an excuse to cry. Their eyes became the grinds in my cheek; a pummeled day where fists would grace and I mapped my desk with what they wouldn’t do; the lines of every taut lesson I held thick, the thumb pounced athletic nib of my pen crawling my arm with schools of red fish; itching arithmetic. How could they know which colours I use to dot the I; that spot being so readily marked with their X?

0

Mar 13, 2013

Mar 13, 2013 at 6:47 AM UTC

Those Who Can't

They would not defend it - dangling over the gate, split nosed – the fall I watched from inside, so jealous. They would not reason it; splint in the accident of the wasp pumped crimson lip, nor my lopsided forgiveness for smacking the backs of their laughter so. They would not look away from the wind that ripped my threads of hair -oil slick - the slate of what became so readily an excuse to cry. Their eyes became the grinds in my cheek; a pummeled day where fists would grace and I mapped my desk with what they wouldn’t do; the lines of every taut lesson I held thick, the thumb pounced athletic nib of my pen crawling my arm with schools of red fish; itching arithmetic. How could they know which colours I use to dot the I; that spot being so readily marked with their X?

36