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 Nov 2013 Laurel Elizabeth
b
Her eyes played me
Like soft chords on
An old violin,
And the sound produced
Would never sound as sweet,
As the song flowing from
Your piano key teeth.

There are harmonies in my heart,
And melodies in my veins.
If only you'd strum me
Three times more,
I'd blow into your trumpet lips,
And you'd buzz and you'd hum-
Dancing inside of my kiss.

I'll take this mallet,
And hammer away
At the contours of your spine
Like it were a xylophone,
Your body vibrates-
I flow to the sensual tone.

This is a symphony of few,
An orchestra of two,
And who needs instruments anyway-
When the music is made
by me and you?
 Nov 2013 Laurel Elizabeth
M
I'm okay without her, like hiding behind her, without her, because missing a moment of her is just not an option, and because she's my whole world and she could destroy me at any moment. Running through her pictures as fast as my fingers will allow, partially because I want to kiss every face she has, and mostly because they're all perfect, and I can't pick just one. Yes, it burns to see her face, but for this I would ignite myself, for this, I would give up anything. I've laid on this tile floor for the past five hours, and everything I've seen for the last three days has been at the bottom of the sea. I can wipe it away, but it always comes back because it belongs here, and I feel like I belong at the bottom of the sea. Maybe you're asking yourself why I hold on to what is tearing me apart... Well, I first and foremost, would die for her. Everyday, I would die, and everyday I do ,because I love her, I always have, since the very second I knew how. I have loved her not only in this life, but in all the past lives. She's been beautiful in 100,000 forevers, and 100,000 times I have always loved her. And I have never needed anyone before her, she is everything I need.

She's the woman I'd stare at and she'd say nothing, because the type of nothing she has is the type of nothing that means everything. She could break me over and over, and it always hurts like hell, but each time I heal, and into a better shape, for her. One of our biggest blessings is our ability to dream, to take yourself to places that only the deepest part of you knows, your souls desires. Things your mind could never fathom. I dream of her, but she's real. I am who I am because of her. I wanted to write because she wanted to write, and I wanted to laugh because she laughed, hers is perfect, and now I know, really, I just wanted her.

She makes everything in this world matter more than it did, I've never loved a cheek before, and I've never missed a set of lips so much. That's how I'll always love her more than anyone could love another, because I fell in love when she walked, and I fell in love when she spoke to me, and then I fell in love when she smiled. I fell in love while she slept and I fell in love with the way I fell for her. I fell for every part of her, one by one, so many times I'm sure I spent most of my time on the ground picking up the little pieces of me that couldn't wait to be hers. It doesn't matter how big of a crowd she is in, it never did, because I found her. I found her once, and I will always find her, so she'll never be lost.

This day I was able to show the world what I've waited so long to show them. She is perfect, and no matter if I'm a man, a fish, or a tree, I will only love her.
There are infinite numbers between 0 and 1, and that's what you gave me. You gave me forever within the numbered days, and dying wouldn't be a waste to me. So, here's to all the places we went, and here's to all the places I'll never go, and here's to me whispering again and again and again and again, "I love you".
my day is naught but toil,
   my night is naught but strife.
in my sleep i turn and toss
   whilst a dream reflects my life.

why then does a smile chase these lips
   and a twinkle tease these eyes?
are my furrowed brow and fists a-clenched
   contentment in disguise?

Joy intrudes on every bitter moment;
   joy heals wrathful thoughts and wounded ken;
   joy thrusts forget on all my hurt
   and joy gifts vigor to my pen.

O God, your chronic cheer may end,
   see, your joy is hampered so.
your servant, i, will stretch it farther,
   where it wills to break i cannot know.
I'd like to know the science of inspiration, although I'm afraid that the facts will be straightforward and obvious. This much I know: strong emotion elicits either the worst or the best of whatever your talent is. This is the only poem I've been able to really put work into these days, simply thanks to lack of energy. I might want to use a few of these words or rhymes in later poems, but they're not amazing.

Strife is virtually unavoidable. It's unhealthy and absurd, but we'll never be able to get past it.

Live, love and let,

--Ace
 Nov 2013 Laurel Elizabeth
brooke
when he was
just bean, a
mere potential
for life his mother
wished for a girl
but instead got the
makings of a man

but subconsciously
unhappy she never stopped
wishing and he began to become
undone as his parts became obsolete
(c) Brooke Otto
Since I have no other way
And am in utmost need,
Painter girl,
I filch one of the eight lambs
You have made plump with
Green jackfruit leaves and
Thin gruel with paddy bran.

I will take it to the goat market
And sell it in a jiffy.

I assure you
I will not sell it
To any butcher-
The lamb you made chubby
With sweet sweet words
And much much petting
And nice lilting croons,
Mixing and mixing
Greens with browns.


Don’t be sad, painter girl.
I hear you come running
Searching for your lamb and
Cry out “O my dearest one
Who went grazing in the green fields,”
As the sun in your canvas
Sets in the sea and
The saffron blends with the dusk.
And, see your tears mingle
With the black that you wanted
To adorn the brow of
The naughtiest of them.

Painter girl,
It’s all because I have no other go
And it’s of utmost need.
I could have broken into the
Two-storeyedhouse you sketched
And stolen the ornaments in
Secret lockers that even
You are unaware of.

Or, I could have
Palmed the golden girdle
Of the beautiful ***** princess
Whose portrait you made,
The one with a nose stud.
Or, drugged her with my kisses
And plundered the harem.

Or else, I could have
Entered the snake shrine
Guarded by the dark serpents
That you often drew
And fled the country with
The precious jewel.

Or, I could have shot down
The birds that you drew
And sold them grilled.

I could have axed down the
Mahagony trees you nurtured
And sold them as timber.
I could have blinded your Kanhaiah
And made him a beggar
To become rich from the alms he earned.
I could have enslavened his Gopis
And handed them over
To the red light streets.

Painter girl,
It’s not for anything of this sort.
I take just one of your eight lambs.
Sell it for a good price
And fulfill my need.

Now, perchance,
If a new tenant comes to rent
My brain where nothing resides
And if they pay me a fat advance,
Painter girl,
Surely will I buy back your lamb.
And tether it in your painting.
Don’t you dare say then
Don’t you say then
That you have forgotten it.
Don’t you say then
You have exhausted your stock of
Green jackfruit leaves.


(Trans from Malayalam by Ra Sh)
(Trans from Malayalam by Ra Sh)
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