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Anastasia Webb Aug 2016
i love the taste of
cigarettes in your mouth and
your long musician's fingernails;
     your opposable thumbs your
     clear blue eyes your
     dreadlocks between my fingers your
     smile "you're gorgeous".

the foggy windows of the car &
the dense air between us. i gave you
   hickeys and a *******, and after,
the water you gave me tasted
slightly of energy drink.

you told me to go home,
go to sleep, because
i wanted to kiss you and kiss
you and kiss you and
remember the taste of your mouth.
Anastasia Webb Jul 2015
last time we made love.
   stagnant heat bitter night,
    the smell of petrol from the highway,
        the old wind out on the balcony,
              our open windows,
our thin white curtains,
    our industrial city,
      our smogged stars.
                               and then –
our fast breathing and oh gosh,
           when you slipped your skull against my mouth
         i swear i could taste the scene:
some romantic technicolour western
     we’d watch in our friend’s garage
                        on their old TV.
                            (years gone past)
your hand against my skeletal
       cheek; our wandering minds;
                    our palm tree resorts,
       our electric hollywood dream;
          the setted sun
               the golden beaches
                       the tangerine taste in my mouth
                            from your love,
           the smell of our skin.


Anastasia Webb Nov 2014
about writing
is pathetic,
so instead
I’ll write about that time
in March when we went
hiking along ridgetops and
firetrails, and the sun
baked the rocks hard and impassive
to our boots. The orange-and-white tracks
folded back upon
themselves and seemed
so illogical that we thought
somehow we were going
in circles
(round the Sun we missed
that one it felt like we
weren’t moving)

For lunch you had squished
peanut butter and
sardine sandwiches because
you’re odd and idiosyncratic
like that, and I had apples
and muesli bars because I’m
too lazy to make lunch
at 6 in the morning.
We ate on a huge rock
overlooking trees and Lucy
in the Sky with Diamonds
playing on the radio.
It felt as if we were two
enclosed in a small
self-erected hazecloud
where birds and lizards
and just breeze mingles
surprisingly well with John Lennon’s

I remember the sun-scored rocks
had stored up warmth
from years of Marchdays like
today, they stayed warm slightly
longer than the air did.
We tasted each other’s
post-lunch mouths (you were
sardine and kind of gross)
and pretended like
our hands were ants,
scuttling aimlessly
(we had an aim)

I liked to think my fingers
were all elegant and smooth
as the moon.
I love you and I want
to make you happy here,
I love you and I want you
to make me happy here,
i should sleep – you should sleep –
we should sleep together.

I still remember that Marchday
when we went hiking and I’ve
written about it
dozens of times before in different
modes with other characters
to be honest I
don’t want to write about
anything else.
We found the fountainhead of the dark brimming night,
wasn't blue black as one would think, but white,
shimmering bright, flight of the pigeons, unexpected;
waves beating repeatedly against the shores, fluorescent blue poles,
seething in love and lust,bursting bright in overwhelming desire,
limitless yen to break every restraint, to merge and be only one.

put your logic aside and dive in to the phantom depths
where you reach without moving an inch in space,
blue receptacle, the cave concealing  silver sparkles
she and I were yin and yang, on an exploration of the self mountain
in the uniform of beasts, though in an incognito vacation in our forest,
it's all fantasy that creates various hues, black and white too

there were no butterflies with fragile wings under the starlit night,
when we wished the night sky was full of them, flying, alighting on our bodies entwined, in a frenzy; they tickled and caressed with tender wings,
like  dissipated pieces of rainbow, one following the other,
in a rare migratory path, across the horizon, in to the unknown.

the fountainhead of the night, we see it without even eyes,
interplanetary travelers we are, in our crafts, even if they look fragile,
the essence of being is beyond the realm of real,
                                                                ­           we had out of body awareness,
both imagination and dream are filled with
                                                                ­           undulating moon grace.
Anastasia Webb Nov 2014
as a lock i am content.
smooth metallic surface skin
(perfect shiny smooth so i smile)
mechanics behind eyes
mouths hands ankles
special functions each. i feel
content with my place, i feel
satisfied with my perceptions,
i am fulfilling my
daily roles, my existence
is justified, i feel physically
full – not from the stomach but from
the guts, not with food but with
blood like a rush-reaction
heating up, flushing red
like my lips after what we did
on my bed on saturday
(always slightly on edge with our
programmed satellite ears extended out
in case some innocent wandered in)

everything in its right place
my plodding daily satisfaction
(to satisfy mysthesystemelf)
no happy hours but happy days,
healthy children, healthy lifestyle
feeling pure and therefore proper
and therefore all is well.
i repeat. all is well.

i woke up today turned on
the coffee giant poured a cup,
drank the tar pleasantly surprised
by a peck on the cheek from my
husband_ kids sent off to school_
stayed at home all day_ husband
off to work_ came home, he came home_
i had a lovely day, thank you,
obligatory post-dinner ***
as a lock i am content.
Anastasia Webb Nov 2014
so i started this poem
thinking about you
even though i'm not
allowed to think
about you anymore,
even though
i said i'd written my last poem
about your taste, even though
i've moved on,
i've found another one
with your name so i can
change all the connotations,
even though i don't even
think about you
that much
i was thinking about you now,
even though you no longer
interest me, not really,
you're just another old event
in my mind, and i hope
you haven't figured out
that i'm trying to change
your name's connotations
04/11/14, oh my
Anastasia Webb Oct 2014
Write your poems about death.
(write ur emo-black-hair
s­ter-e-o-type po-e-try
about death)

Write your overdone morbid
imagery, similes
(write ur unhappy-heart
ster-e-o-type po-e-try
about death)
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