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ED Aug 2015
Ask him about the first time we met.
He will tell you,
eyes bright,
that I made him laugh
so hard
that his ribcage cracked open,
releasing a generation of butterflies
he kept hidden for so long
I may never know
who hatched them there.

Ask him about the songs I sing.
He will tell you,
in a familiar tune,
that I make pythons dance.
My vocal chords are marionettes
that turn ballerinas into puppets
whose feet never touch the ground.

Ask him about my bedroom.
He will tell you,
counting off of his fingers,
that the shelves are stacked and rickety
the vanities empty
and the lamp, a glowing green,
casts shadows of butterflies.
He will tell you that there are two broken clocks
under glow in the dark stars
and a table of sketches
eraser dust
and matchsticks.

Ask him about the sketches.
Ask him about the shelves.

Ask him about my poetry.
A muted mouth with a severed tongue will tell you
that there are hundreds,
written on the insides of my palms
But they've been caged fists
since my heart  first opened
and there is not a single joke
that could make me laugh
hard enough
to set free the crushed chrysalids
that I've been holding
since I discovered butterflies.
This poem accompanies my other written piece, "The Boy and His Butterflies", which would explain the similar titles and the constant usage of butterfly metaphors. Happy reading! - E.D
entropiK  Nov 2010
c h a l k.~
entropiK Nov 2010
must i long for
the scarlet rain
that
did not phlebotomise,

did not secrete
from  
codeine clouds,
    
                                                                        if  the milk would be spilt.


must i conceive ignus fatuus
colourcasts from the television
inside a mouth
that caterwauls
faces of static and pollen
and Klaus Nomi masks  

as if i were lobotomised
eating flowers fingered out of
the flesh of the brain

                                                                         carnations would not exist.


i do not want to believe
the promise
of  lovers were
merely  yous' and



eyes'.
no such world is eyeless.
or any less without eyes.

                                                                            become my chalk and bones.

i want to believe
humanity
is a defined mass
of bathypelagic insects

sleeping in chrysalids
longing to be
broken.

                                                                             break me.



i want to understand
there is an euxine ocean



beyond my bathtub.
haaa~ i l i k e to space the l e t t e r s

its  f u n .~
haha, k im overdoing it.
lol my bad!!!

enjoyy~
Jordan Resendes Apr 2017
I have very complex thoughts
Some which I wish I could
Transcribe and manifest into the world.

But why? When language is so phishy and fickle. This is not the Chrysalids although I wish it were
So that I could express the
Duress of my thought shapes.

Steinbeck was onto something, I believe.
A more connected more
Outlandish, unifying ancient
Form of being present in the future.
Engaging and increasing the
Proficiency at communicating.

Perhaps one day we will be
Inundated from senses we
Had forgotten or done away with.

For now, these words must but
Never will suffice. Seems egotistical
Almost, to make me feel nice.
Clearer view. On our way.

— The End —