mary-correia - Hello Poetry

he taste of cream, iced. the cold helps my throat and my body which both feel like furnaces that won’t **** their burning faces. tell me which is worse: the end of a railway track or the beginning of a meal when you’re already sick at the thought of it? this is what France has given me: the confidence and surety that everything I’ve ever wanted is valid; and therefore I should not consider myself to be a whiny white antagonist but rather, an activist, and someone who is alive, AWAKE, alert and always after all the action. And I will go faster. After all, this isn’t about me, it’s about you- no I take it back, in fact- it’s about what we leave behind. How many times does a nursery rhyme have to tell you to be a good person before we all start moving to the countryside and growing our own food to provide? But that’s beside the point. Pass me the bottle of water or put my head under the tap, you know: I’d prefer the latter.

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May 26, 2016

May 26, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC

Not France, But Near There

he taste of cream, iced. the cold helps my throat and my body which both feel like furnaces that won’t **** their burning faces. tell me which is worse: the end of a railway track or the beginning of a meal when you’re already sick at the thought of it? this is what France has given me: the confidence and surety that everything I’ve ever wanted is valid; and therefore I should not consider myself to be a whiny white antagonist but rather, an activist, and someone who is alive, AWAKE, alert and always after all the action. And I will go faster. After all, this isn’t about me, it’s about you- no I take it back, in fact- it’s about what we leave behind. How many times does a nursery rhyme have to tell you to be a good person before we all start moving to the countryside and growing our own food to provide? But that’s beside the point. Pass me the bottle of water or put my head under the tap, you know: I’d prefer the latter.

13

Colour now with an extra “oh!” as if it needs more exclamation Does it rain more, here? Do I just notice because my umbrella broke? All I brought from home was the blanket from my bed, and it doesn’t match.

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Apr 9, 2016

Apr 9, 2016 at 11:59 AM UTC

England: Three Haikus, Which Are Also Three Hyperboles

Colour now with an extra “oh!” as if it needs more exclamation Does it rain more, here? Do I just notice because my umbrella broke? All I brought from home was the blanket from my bed, and it doesn’t match.

9

On my fingernails there’s chipped-off red. I’m tipped off my axis, don’t ask me what’s in my head. I just painted them so I couldn’t see the dirt underneath. If you ignore the parts that you’re sure are just the worst- can’t be a true reflection of you- it hurts. There’s a difference between an eraser and a curtain. Within, it’s too much.

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Apr 9, 2016

Apr 9, 2016 at 11:59 AM UTC

Untitled4

On my fingernails there’s chipped-off red. I’m tipped off my axis, don’t ask me what’s in my head. I just painted them so I couldn’t see the dirt underneath. If you ignore the parts that you’re sure are just the worst- can’t be a true reflection of you- it hurts. There’s a difference between an eraser and a curtain. Within, it’s too much.

12

Do I have to tell a story? I always thought that words could just be stand-ins, they could be taste and feelings and hands on your body, they could be a wet finger in your ear or a slap across the jaw. I always thought that they would just be there, stagnant and- **** read them if you want to but otherwise they’ll sit, they don’t poke unless provoked. Do I have to have morals? I don’t mean the author I mean the worlds: do they have to be active? A verb: what you do. But words are born from a sting on the arm, a shot of rushing brightness that can’t be captured. They’re eggs: they’re capsules: they’re formulations. I don’t want to write a word that would be seen on the hem of soldiers, I just want to pull them from my skin like clay and let them dry

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Apr 9, 2016

Apr 9, 2016 at 11:58 AM UTC

Less Than

Do I have to tell a story? I always thought that words could just be stand-ins, they could be taste and feelings and hands on your body, they could be a wet finger in your ear or a slap across the jaw. I always thought that they would just be there, stagnant and- **** read them if you want to but otherwise they’ll sit, they don’t poke unless provoked. Do I have to have morals? I don’t mean the author I mean the worlds: do they have to be active? A verb: what you do. But words are born from a sting on the arm, a shot of rushing brightness that can’t be captured. They’re eggs: they’re capsules: they’re formulations. I don’t want to write a word that would be seen on the hem of soldiers, I just want to pull them from my skin like clay and let them dry

18

a park bench a gazebo in the middle of a circle of a keyhole like a teapot centrefold three dance inside of it- bright hair and nowhere else to go passing around a single thin cigarette my ankles have goosebumps a streetlamp that creates the illusion that the night isn't setting in and yet beyond the gazebo the sky looks like it would smell like lavender and "seaside" the buildings and buses all let of orange yellow glows i'm getting too cold the wind really gets up under my coat this time

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Feb 1, 2016

Feb 1, 2016 at 7:37 PM UTC

gazebo

a park bench a gazebo in the middle of a circle of a keyhole like a teapot centrefold three dance inside of it- bright hair and nowhere else to go passing around a single thin cigarette my ankles have goosebumps a streetlamp that creates the illusion that the night isn't setting in and yet beyond the gazebo the sky looks like it would smell like lavender and "seaside" the buildings and buses all let of orange yellow glows i'm getting too cold the wind really gets up under my coat this time

16

The wind blows the back of my hair straight up, and in my shadow I have horns or antlers. I don't even recognize myself! Looking up at the gray as the trees make themselves just outlines- so you can see each individual branch against the atmosphere as if under a microscope- with a backlight. I left flowers at home. I put fresh daisies- no- dandelions by my own grave and now I'm here- like I don't even exist over there anymore. Like life reincarnate.

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Feb 1, 2016

Feb 1, 2016 at 7:34 PM UTC

Confusion, A moment of

The wind blows the back of my hair straight up, and in my shadow I have horns or antlers. I don't even recognize myself! Looking up at the gray as the trees make themselves just outlines- so you can see each individual branch against the atmosphere as if under a microscope- with a backlight. I left flowers at home. I put fresh daisies- no- dandelions by my own grave and now I'm here- like I don't even exist over there anymore. Like life reincarnate.

13

The sound of a highway that is really the wind pushing down the wrong side of the street. He stood there with a voice so timid, I wanted to cry- no- hug him- no- laugh- or- lay down on the cobblestone right there and scream the poetry of that moment at everyone walking by- but- I didn't even give him a pound because by the time my heart began to constrict, my legs had already told me to keep walking along- but- all I can think about is his hands in his pockets and the white piece of paper on the ground at his feet, telling him the words to a song that he knew by heart. And there was his stubble and where is his family? And his hands in his pockets and I just kept walking.

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Feb 1, 2016

Feb 1, 2016 at 7:32 PM UTC

Untitled

The sound of a highway that is really the wind pushing down the wrong side of the street. He stood there with a voice so timid, I wanted to cry- no- hug him- no- laugh- or- lay down on the cobblestone right there and scream the poetry of that moment at everyone walking by- but- I didn't even give him a pound because by the time my heart began to constrict, my legs had already told me to keep walking along- but- all I can think about is his hands in his pockets and the white piece of paper on the ground at his feet, telling him the words to a song that he knew by heart. And there was his stubble and where is his family? And his hands in his pockets and I just kept walking.

17

Swirl of bitter smoke as smooth as a scent. Richness, indulgence. Why deny the body corporal pleasures? What more is there to living than cake, creamy coffee, scents, softness- excessiveness in excess. Finding meaning in knowing that it's all Absurd. When the pang of wanting arises, do not deny. There are no rules. Willpower will not follow you beyond the grave. Brass bed posts, tainted and smoothed by touch, casual grazes, as the feet touch the cold floor, the breath creaks out. A wooden table, round and stained that softly accepts the heavy mug. That gives the fingers something roughly smooth to touch when there's nothing- or when there's everything, it's all too much- the sensory. A window with an eroded sill. Or better yet- a balcony. A purple sky, the air humid and warm. A chance to breathe. Is it selfish? Is it how true life should be? Lazy, gluttonous, pointless, boring. Tell me I don't know what's good for me. Sleep, wake, bed, sheets soft and hugging tugging on a duvet to cover from the breeze- an open window with curtains dancing. Is it time clocks or is it days and feelings? 11:30 is not too early for lunch because lunch is when you're hungry. My body calls for blueberries, tobacco, dozy sleeps on and off for 3 hours, dark chocolate squares to excite my tongue, outdoors, fresh air, being naked in the day time. A shirt with a joke on it that only you understand.

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Jan 27, 2016

Jan 27, 2016 at 10:06 AM UTC

L'Etranger

Swirl of bitter smoke as smooth as a scent. Richness, indulgence. Why deny the body corporal pleasures? What more is there to living than cake, creamy coffee, scents, softness- excessiveness in excess. Finding meaning in knowing that it's all Absurd. When the pang of wanting arises, do not deny. There are no rules. Willpower will not follow you beyond the grave. Brass bed posts, tainted and smoothed by touch, casual grazes, as the feet touch the cold floor, the breath creaks out. A wooden table, round and stained that softly accepts the heavy mug. That gives the fingers something roughly smooth to touch when there's nothing- or when there's everything, it's all too much- the sensory. A window with an eroded sill. Or better yet- a balcony. A purple sky, the air humid and warm. A chance to breathe. Is it selfish? Is it how true life should be? Lazy, gluttonous, pointless, boring. Tell me I don't know what's good for me. Sleep, wake, bed, sheets soft and hugging tugging on a duvet to cover from the breeze- an open window with curtains dancing. Is it time clocks or is it days and feelings? 11:30 is not too early for lunch because lunch is when you're hungry. My body calls for blueberries, tobacco, dozy sleeps on and off for 3 hours, dark chocolate squares to excite my tongue, outdoors, fresh air, being naked in the day time. A shirt with a joke on it that only you understand.

41

creaking bones and heavy eyes the distant stare of deprivation teeth hurt up into my eye sockets from clenching in the night, terrorized by my own brain chemicals I need to eat- fill my stomach and my bloodstream with sugars and caffeine. I need to sleep- maybe if I disappear from my own thoughts for a while the world will be a little quieter- a little less demanding when I wake. Maybe it's in my own mind.

0

Jan 27, 2016

Jan 27, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC

Ease in

creaking bones and heavy eyes the distant stare of deprivation teeth hurt up into my eye sockets from clenching in the night, terrorized by my own brain chemicals I need to eat- fill my stomach and my bloodstream with sugars and caffeine. I need to sleep- maybe if I disappear from my own thoughts for a while the world will be a little quieter- a little less demanding when I wake. Maybe it's in my own mind.

13

there's no rules governing the way to proper life. There's no advisor telling you the rules to having done it right. When it's your time for your organs to shut down and communication from brain to body to cease, there's no final test of whether or not you've made an impact or done it the way people expect you to. All that matters is that you've done things. You've eaten too much cheesecake, and been in trouble with the law, and it's all been good. It's all in accordance with physics, and it's all been here.

0

Jan 21, 2016

Jan 21, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC

Affirmations, Life

there's no rules governing the way to proper life. There's no advisor telling you the rules to having done it right. When it's your time for your organs to shut down and communication from brain to body to cease, there's no final test of whether or not you've made an impact or done it the way people expect you to. All that matters is that you've done things. You've eaten too much cheesecake, and been in trouble with the law, and it's all been good. It's all in accordance with physics, and it's all been here.

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