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mûre Feb 2012
To break is an abstraction.
To break what?
A noun?
Tangible?
Phoebe fell down four flights, fracturing her femur.
A verb?
Felt sharply in a sudden absence?
Singing Schubert and feeling a spasm of sorrow, his voice shattered.
Direct object?
A being, a destination.
I am. I am (what?) I am (broken).
Don't tell me I haven't failed
in the same sentence you tell me I'm not enough.
And watch me leaf-like tremble, fumble hands, cover mouth
A paper mask over shaking gasps that wrack me naked.
Don't tell me I'm not broken.
When I am (broken).
mûre Feb 2012
the sea was malaised
heaving waves against the cliff
waters all moaning
mûre Feb 2012
i love you (redly)
more ardent and more tender
than feb. the 14th
mûre Feb 2012
rolling in the rosy dish of my tongue
it returns in my mouth to
its most basic elements
a primordial alabaster foam
of corn syrup and gelatin
and unpronounceable would-rather-not-knows
i think: marshmallows
are the juxtaposition to my quaker pallet
microwave tap water&Fr;;'s Cocoa
awash and dissolve
my saccharine oral fixation
in jealous slurps of heat
that radiate down
down down
heat, you see-
(as a sakura flush
blossoms 'cross the
pale of my throat)
-has always been the key
here's a secret:
in solitude i
i'm a homunculous girl
all lips and all hands
mûre Feb 2012
...you stand surely to shipwreck.
all hands on deck.

accordion three-four lilts amelie
hymn hummed
beneath frenetic waltz of fingers
Rain-bitten and dumb

pirouette recessional to the sea

and such enchanting cobbled waves

how truly quaint rosy tempest in the square

pour down the dirge to murky drain.
throw in the bottle, the maps, the ropes

pirouette recessional to the sea

lastly heave-**
i throw in me.
mûre Jan 2012
Having fallen enchanted with terabytes
And crackle static audio that
kissed my cochlea
at arms length a thousand miles away
i realized with fear my folly
And the cursed blessing of feeling your butterflies.gif
As pixelated and intangible as
your portrait freezing before me
a betrayal to our union
a betrayal of our humanity
full of blood and heat and scent
when warmth is plastic beneath palms
when the fan cannot keep up with fervor
when solace is typed in syllables, sacred,
that do not err or lose their way in translation
And now i am Pygmalion
prostrate before his masterpiece
Clutching his beloved rock
And waiting for lightning.
******* long distance.
mûre Jan 2012
Curious blues with little voices.
Curious fingers with little voices/

Blues long to ask. To capture.
Fingers long to tell. To liberate/

When the soul murmurs,
sometimes it writes itself down.
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