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Oct 2018 · 491
my skeleton is
Cecelia Francis Oct 2018
my skeleton is
made from the stuff
as sensitive teeth:

it can't take
much cold

instead of a shiver,
there is a stiffening
freeze, and

cavities make them
slip from their folds
Sep 2018 · 543
I fuck like a fairy
Cecelia Francis Sep 2018
I **** like a fairy
on funghi:

If a fun guy could happen
to *** by briny waves
ridden turned wastewater
that only perverts could swallow,
and turn rough like a flagellant

Beating against being submerged,
with wings going like mad, and hurt
charting pain like a map on the
body as it lay gasping, oars
grasping for dry land.

My luck lies fairly
on the one guy
Sep 2018 · 313
I've heard
Cecelia Francis Sep 2018
I've heard

that herd

a shepherd's dog and
his sheep--

"I love you"
corrals an
"I love you too"

with a few frantic barks,
and fast feet
Sep 2018 · 324
I lost a will
Cecelia Francis Sep 2018
I lost a will:
to write,
to life

it's gone like
an unimportant

or erased?

what made
a clean slate?

brain bleached like
whites in laundry
Apr 2018 · 360
Music is the incunabula
Cecelia Francis Apr 2018
Music is the incunabula
-the first traces- of poetry

an attempt to put the sound into word,
not in the lyrical sense: some set rhythm and
rhyme and words, no,
in a biblical sense

in the shape and form:
in a transcription of
minor and major lifts
and dips
Mar 2018 · 424
Afterwords, I stuff
Cecelia Francis Mar 2018
Afterwords, I stuff
myself back
within myself--

pleated coils bending
like knees,
with ease,
like they've been on
tippy toes too long--

A too flexible and
overly sensitive
jack in a box:

One whose chest gets too
excited at the turn
of a handlefull of gears
until the lid
pops off
Mar 2018 · 429
Poetry in translation
Cecelia Francis Mar 2018
Poetry in translation
is a shower in
another home.

This shower is
not my own-
it is not
familiar and
may have a different

may be a difference
in tub size or water
pressure, or in finicky
temperatures, however:
the water is water,
the knobs twist,
it turns hot or cold.

Foreign words form
and provide the same
function as native words
when you learn things like:
agua is water is eau, and
frio is cold is froid.

Language is a
pantomime of itself,
it mimics itself.
There is a likeness
akin to sameness.
Mimetics, 6/8 time
Feb 2018 · 261
I try to avoid
Cecelia Francis Feb 2018
I try to avoid
writing about you:

I consult with
deep sleep and music
instead, but

They lack what
poems have:
a permanent place
in performative space,

A sight full shape: like
the scent of your name exhaled
from the back of my throat.

I admit: time did not
properly permit love to
become anything more than
a thing that could have been done,

I've missed you,
I missed you,
                         -there are times, still-
I miss you
Feb 2018 · 281
Water is
Cecelia Francis Feb 2018
Water is
so filling

up fruits and
bodies of oceans
like people
Nov 2017 · 365
You make me feel
Cecelia Francis Nov 2017
You make me feel
an unwashed mouth:

A fuzzy little tonguing
familiar stale taste,

some temporary state:
a place meant to be erased
after waking, before lunchtime
Nov 2017 · 335
A reinforced complex
Cecelia Francis Nov 2017
A reinforced complex:
A ***** might ****
with, but doesn't
necessarily want

Me: a common
denominator that
stirs interest, but

Not much else
Nov 2017 · 553
Is my body an
Cecelia Francis Nov 2017
Is my body an
expensive house:

Should I be careful?
Lock my doors?
disjointed haiku
Nov 2017 · 273
Better is better, but
Cecelia Francis Nov 2017
Better is better, but
not necessarily good:

Do I deserve better
or goodness?

Why can I not
tell the difference?
Oct 2017 · 1.3k
There are men
Cecelia Francis Oct 2017
There are men
with loud voices

I've been taught
to fear since birth.

If the intermittence
of skin flashing between
two articles of clothing is
where seduction occurs

then where is the
****** gaping cloth
of a yell?

Is it in the cavernous tongueless space
of parted lips: in some silent inky
strident echoing taste
in the tightness of vocal
chords pulled taut, the strain of
raised forehead and neck veins?

There's a weight in
my chest like a weight
in his bed, heavy and
unsatisfied and
thinly veiled.

I think somehow
the look on my face
must be a pleasing design:

a familiar retraceable
state: a reminder that
I don't mind him,

I know my place:
in a small, quiet space,
in his arms when its late,
on the drip of the spit on the tip of
his tongue: a flash of flesh over pale teeth:
a site of intermittence: in a hesitation

a fearful hesitation
barthes, chord progressions
Aug 2017 · 337
The weed is
Cecelia Francis Aug 2017
The **** is
more expensive

In conservation
I bathed in the sun
and danced around
a mushroom

to **** some time.

Well, what now?
What else is
there to do?

I could **** my
self, but then
I might die
Aug 2017 · 365
I only listen
Cecelia Francis Aug 2017
I only listen
to K and J or
City pop
as of late.

I suppose even
the ears can change
its taste,

refine and become
a picky eater of what
it wants to ingest:

a palatable beat
with round sounding
words, the occasional english;

something lit,
a bop
Aug 2017 · 243
I daydream
Cecelia Francis Aug 2017
I daydream:

which pieces of
cutlery you and I
could ever be.

A little spoon
bent at the neck
to a whim or will,

a parlor trick.
Aug 2017 · 420
My muse
Cecelia Francis Aug 2017
My muse:
where is all the
poetry on periods?

Where is the modern Shakespeare's
"Shall I compare thee to an
Always pad or Kotex?

So absorbent of my
love and ****** fluids."
Jul 2017 · 437
What tender hands
Cecelia Francis Jul 2017
What tender hands
and lovely finger pads
thumbing cloth and
phone screens:

If tender buttons can
be pushed through
a buttonhole then

a rigid zipper
might also
bend and sigh
Jul 2017 · 345
Need a love language
Cecelia Francis Jul 2017
Need a love language
be translated and transcribed
for the masses?

My heart warms
in the same fashion
as when it listens
to music,

From a source of
friction or energy,
not harsh like the sun:

I'm drawn to
the rhythm and space
up or down between
three or four and seven
or eight notes

I don't speak Korean
or Japanese but I
still like the music.

I whistle harmonies
and melodies to
fulfill the satisfaction
of resolved equations,

I can sing along if
given the words.

My heart sings in
the same fashion as
when it listens to music:

a sway, a pause and lull,
a yearning pulled to the surface,
a smiling utterance of sound.
for hunny
Jul 2017 · 923
A pot bubbles
Cecelia Francis Jul 2017
A *** bubbles
up and under
the shaky lid
clamped shut.

As a child,
my mother would
chide me for

lifting the lid
of rice and
stirring too early.

I was letting
out all the

But the bubbles
sticky white and
bursting over begged

to be released.

For a time,
my body was
not my own.

I boiled,
then cooled.

Lifted the lid,
scraped the sides,
and stirred.
Jul 2017 · 242
I joke about
Cecelia Francis Jul 2017
I joke about
being dead,

and it's funny
because it's true
Jun 2017 · 311
You said you had
Cecelia Francis Jun 2017
You said you had
some choice words
for me, even though

I said we wouldn't
speak again.

You asked what if
you gave up on your
hopes and dreams
and aspirations or

What if I gave
up mine or what
if we could compromise?

But I've let you
go already. We cycled
too many times:

I needed all of your
love, and you only
wanted some of mine.

"Still... I wonder," you said.
But for me days and nights of
wondering had long been dead

I want you to be happy,
but it's not with me.

As time goes by,
I find myself content
with the leftover love for you:

It doesn't mind at all
that I'm happy with another
Mar 2017 · 390
When I think of us
Cecelia Francis Mar 2017
When I think of us
now, it reminds me of my
old religion:

a devout Catholic Christian.

My hands pressed together
with my knees on the floor

for attention.

The light of your glory
hid under a bevy of bushels
--where it's most protected--

at a safe and
comfortable distance;

as the giving of a glow
diminishes its flame,
and the hunger pains for fire
enough to ***** it away.

When I think of us
now, I think of my
new religion:

I sit with palms
open and ask softly:
to be kind and beside me.

I smolder in embers
within a phoenix pyre;

it keeps me warm
and fed and requires
very little:

some feathers, some ash,
my happiness
this was a really old poem that was originally going to be a haiku.... obviously it's no longer a haiku
Mar 2017 · 538
I can see myself
Cecelia Francis Mar 2017
I can see myself
falling for you,

and in that voyeuristic  
pleasure, I feel it-- falling
for you--

and I must look away

like an embarrassing
scene on TV or a
train wreck,

but I can't look away
here we go again with silly
Mar 2017 · 395
I saw him
Cecelia Francis Mar 2017
I saw him
for the last time
I'll see him
in awhile.

He's late by a day
and three hours and
on his phone reading
sports articles in french

with me tucked up
under his arm like
a football, cookies

in the oven for
his long drive.

He kisses me more
than usual and says
he'll miss me and that
we'll be fine, just fine
and I believe him.

He leaves, but
forgets his treats
and returns,

then turns and
leaves again.
Feb 2017 · 671
Can a poem crunch
Cecelia Francis Feb 2017
Can a poem crunch
like a carrot in toddlers
teeth, chewed up quickly?
Feb 2017 · 304
A pair of young palms: one
Cecelia Francis Feb 2017
A pair of young palms: one
bends to kiss the other
in the passengers seat.

A young she at the time
leans like a tree: only in
the extremities, while

palm fronds flick and flutter
shirt hems and tongue tips,

Wait, stop--

Words in haste laid
to wait against the force
of a singular intent to
bend a tree trunk.

Words are less
convincing than

are ineffective against
strength and conviction
Feb 2017 · 433
His lips touch
Cecelia Francis Feb 2017
His lips touch
mine for the
first time, yet

they seem familiar:
like his fingers mindlessly
making mine some about to
turn page corner of a book

read again;
but I don't
mind it
triad, fourth inversion
Feb 2017 · 380
I will put you
Cecelia Francis Feb 2017
I will put you
--which tends to
be the fatal flaw--

He doesn't know I will
write poems about him,

since I've stopped writing
and have stopped writing poetry:

and what is a writer that
doesn't write? a scribbler,
a note taken and thrown away.

He doesn't know I'll write
poetry for him,

and my mother and grandmother's
voices chorus warning in my ears:

don't be the one who
loves more
Jan 2017 · 599
A moon princess
Cecelia Francis Jan 2017
A moon princess
for her coronation:

She wakes early
every morning to
chant ancient songs,

remains a light turned
on, a bright good morning
from winter to spring;

leaves offerings of her
tears and laughter
at the alter with care;

fasted, washed her face
and hair and danced naked
in the stream from day to night.

After turning away from
herself she turns
back with rosy cheeks:

A moon princess
for her crown:

she wears the webbed
melody of singing
stars strung together,

she hums and resonates
her body begins to harmonize
her voice turns to gravity:

she can speak
she can think
she can hear;

her hand outstretched
to the people, her
love refined
Dec 2016 · 359
Avoid force with
Cecelia Francis Dec 2016
Avoid force with
such tender bodies

Bound board by
board of senses  
and sensations
mek it set like cold
to snow

So be tender
with sensitive skin:

A coat keeps
warm in winter wet,
Stay singing and soft,
jovial in Springsun
Dec 2016 · 273
You were once
Cecelia Francis Dec 2016
You were once
a grand influx of air:

fluffing up lungs,
puffed with oxygen.

But the inhale has
quickly become
a held breath
Nov 2016 · 636
Pools filled
Cecelia Francis Nov 2016
Pools filled
with pennies

drowned out wishes

Children splashing
in the shallows
diminished 7th
Nov 2016 · 711
Soft spots mark up
Cecelia Francis Nov 2016
Soft spots mark up
the body and spark

plugged up: an implosion

syrup sweet weeps sticky substances
like love, chuunibyou, and other delusions

dreamed: in language strange
spoked, soaked in sulphur

a beautiful man without mercy hath thee in thrall
allusions to la belle dame sans merci and love, chuunibyou, and other delusions
Oct 2016 · 837
The microwave heats
Cecelia Francis Oct 2016
The microwave heats
but leaves a cold seep in the
middle of the meat
Oct 2016 · 327
You and me
Cecelia Francis Oct 2016
You and me
are like red
and green:

Good for

But what
about the rest
of the year
Cecelia Francis Oct 2016
I was once a classically trained pianist:

My nails cut weekly down to the bit
and internal tongue ta-ta-ta-ta, ta-tee-tee
ta-ta, tom
tuned to the metronome.

Daily hours meant:
bent stick straight up
scales and etudes then
sonatas and scherzos and waltzes and nocturnes and preludes and arias

and movements memorized
by fingers that knew the way
and weight of adjusted arms.

What is the value of
a wrong note alone

or amongst many,

of memory incapable
and fingers fallible?
Sep 2016 · 336
Who am I naked for?
Cecelia Francis Sep 2016
Who am I naked for?
Truth be cold and so

shrivels the little member
with a whimper and perks up

******* ****** dry in
the night because the benefit
of co-bedding is not having
to wake to feed

a cry-- a simple sing-song slur
trying to write again despite giving up on it
Sep 2016 · 351
What's not
Cecelia Francis Sep 2016
What's not
torn down

by whatever
forces decide
to destroy:

The nails
worn with
yellow gloves

yes, and the
walloping water
that wicks wet,

is the same
sharp dry bursts
that blows up

cupcake confetti
through Pinkie's
party canon
who likes that my little pony reference?
Sep 2016 · 362
Time's not real
Cecelia Francis Sep 2016
Time's not real
but our energy is

waning and

despite the waxy
substance sticking
stringing us together.

A touch of sun,
a lick of flame

melt away,
Sep 2016 · 2.2k
Regular Sized Rudy
Cecelia Francis Sep 2016
"Regular Sized Rudy?
Why do they call you that?"
"Just look at me."

Yes, look at me. Are
the laces of my corset
tied tight enough?

Do I deserve lust
if ******* show
in this underbust?

Is my masculinity
compliant and
where it needs to be?
This is my second Regular Sized Rudy poem lol I think the first is better
(a waltz in  3/4 time)
Sep 2016 · 318
I was
Cecelia Francis Sep 2016
I was
raised Catholic
after all,
which means:

I've been
tenderly pruned
by the

Shears of
Catholic Guilt
inverted chord progression
Sep 2016 · 699
She say baby hurry over
Cecelia Francis Sep 2016
She say baby hurry over
so I tell her okie doke

She got fiya and dank earthy buds
I call that oakey dope

Smoke and chillin netflix playin
Hoping I can hokey poke
Lol idk why i do this
Aug 2016 · 423
Hello lone star
Cecelia Francis Aug 2016
Hello lone star,
not too far

I was you once
you were me

See there,
other star

I was you once
you were me
Aug 2016 · 363
I've not been
Cecelia Francis Aug 2016
I've not been
writing lately.

I've chosen in
its stead to take
up wanting:

I want pastel
waist length curly
wigs, and acrylic length
nails filed not cut, crystals
galore, herbs, flowers, moss

And a poem to write
and publish itself to
earn some money;

at least enough
to afford a wig.
Aug 2016 · 475
A pot puts
Cecelia Francis Aug 2016
A *** puts
a lid on its
big mouth

to shut it up
and keep that good
hot stuff in.

There's a time
and place for
heat and steam:

Facials and saunas
and geysers but

nowhere else
Aug 2016 · 282
I wanted to make
Cecelia Francis Aug 2016
I wanted to make
you happy and feel like life
Bright like mine, not yours
Jul 2016 · 411
How precious death
Cecelia Francis Jul 2016
How precious death
and senseless life

when wives should
lie not for her man in
pleasure but in duty

dies giving birth
to his children

who will make more
perfect fifth
Jul 2016 · 650
Sea or broom
Cecelia Francis Jul 2016
Sea or broom
the meaning

runs out of room
to have legs to move--
and like the self

(in love) and useless debris
tends to get swept away
perfect fifth
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