Sarah Ricard Jul 27
Drunk. That tilt-o-whirl
feeling to like; remember
childhood and spinning
around in circles to get dizzy.

Myopia. All’s fuzzy around
the edges, but softened
reality isn’t any prettier.
Not impressed.

Indelible stamp, maybe, on your mind,
if not on mine. Hateful bonding.
Moldy melted bones where there's nothing sharp
to cut through. Inarticulate shame.
Inauthentically uninhibited. Laughing and waiting.

Blanket smoke, the breath of someone else's life.
Daytime: fools apart,
with no excuse, so...
Nighttime: fools together.
A fish or a bird pretending
to be each other can feel stupid.
What of those who won't fly or swim?
Sarah Ricard Jul 17
I feel anguished ; don't know
if that's foolish.
But I'll keep blowing hot and cold if you keep flipping
the switch.
I'm in a class,
We sit in chairs.
The teacher talks,
They listen and stare.

And I'm unfocused.

My pen is scratching,
My mind is clear,
The class is there,
And I am here.

And I should focus.

Oh, shit.
It's quiet.
Have I been caught?
This is something that I should not
Be doing
But I can't help it,
I'm trying to get it,
But my mind is flying,
And I'm sick of trying and
My brain is crying for
More than I'm offered and
DAMN IT!

I just can't focus.
FRITZ Jul 13
tonight the sky died a little.
baked us in a soup thick as roux
           bloody lips,
                        loitering less,
                                meditations rests your head on my shoulder.

psychic fever functions as an embryo

                                             EAT. EAT. EAT.

you were amniotic happy! stifled great! pushing jelly feeding the joyous ooze!
_________+___+_________[]
98;;;; 18
k
Sarah Ricard Jul 11
Unlike Narcissus drowning,
As though in a puddle
Of his own courage drought,
Her time she gives away freely.
Like stopping her own gears;
Let it and all her mechanisms
Flow outward.


At night she seeks the glass.
Unspool her hair, she combs
Her musings, the yards she's given
To every inch-worth endeavor.
Generous, her heart and hope spring.
Gray, the world, and short, her time.
And she's never belonged
As truly as she does to her own head.


And in her mirror, there are colors
that dye the glass and allow
the best to shine in,
like stained windows in a church.
Under hers she prays.


Happy you may think the woman
Who sees what she likes under glass.
Would it could be preserved forever.
But who is to bring her flowers?
Who knows what kind to bring?


Which man can give the compliments
she’d most delight to receive?
What rites for each aspect of her visage?
No eyes could flatter like hers.
See in her Goddess Myth any fragility
to stand up to reflect the inner soul.


But you can’t put lungs in the looking glass,
And breathe air into those lungs.
Though she wants to pull
a gender-swapped mirror image
out into the world, her other half
is the man from Backwards Land.
It would have to be the reverse.
Else he'd expect to see his mirror image;
not to be the double of hers.
serpentinium Jul 11
pompeii runs through our veins,
hot with the taste of ash & decay.

some of us are fortunate enough to
become ruins; others are ruinous,
sepulchers of epidemics, air-born, contagious.
a disease that could make London a cemetery.

we dress ourselves up like relics, clothed
in silk and gold and gossamer,
as if they could one day be armor.
as if they could bring us safety.
as if we deserve such things when everything we touch rusts.

it takes only twenty-two years for the
average person to realize they are a weapon.
that words are knives and actions are razor blades,
as if to remind the living that we
came into the world screaming—
and we have never been silent since.

we are the Morrigans, the cursed women,
those whose destiny is entwined with death.
we court death, invite her to our dinner table every night,
let her sleep in the guest room, leave the doors and
windows unlocked for her.

death, we realize as women forced to bear
the weight of the dead on our shoulders,
never comes as a thief.
she comes as a lover, smelling of lilac, a grin
too white and too large to be human.

still, we invite her in,
because even death, regardless of form,
makes for better company than the empty dark.
inspired by the line: we are naught but rot and ruin.
serpentinium Jul 11
i. there’s a girl. narrow-boned, wild hair like a lion’s mane, sprawled underneath the shade of a looming fig tree. her teeth are all that’s sharp about her. soft curves, soft lips, a soft paradox in the Garden. in this lost land, there she is, subtle and tinged with the same stardust you once believed could save us all.

angelic, you’d call her, if she looked more grotesque. more like the cherubim of ol’, dressed in flames, impaled on swords, screeching the name “hosanna, hosanna” without mouths. but there are no wings, no heavenly trumpets, just the afterimage of divinity– something laced with hope, but already rotting. she spits out seven seeds and you don’t know if this is a land of God or gods anymore.

ii. she smiles and it feels like death.

you are unable to solve the riddle sprung from the lion’s ribcage– but the roof of your mouth tastes like honey and blood and you don’t mind. there’s no linearity, no familiar whine of a donkey, nor the sound of sand against gravel or sandaled feet marred by sunburns and blisters.

there is simply you and her and an eternity of possibilities that whisper in a forked tongue, “adam, oh adam,” and your heart drops. is this the end? but it tastes so sweet and you are alright to die like this, cradled between what was once in your womb and a creature of scales.

you do not expect the guilt that drips down your chin with each rivulet of juice.

iii. they call it love.
you call it divine absolution.
she calls it the beginning of humanity.
idk sometimes i think about eve like a lot
Sarah Ricard Jul 11
Thumbs hooked through jean belt loops,

pulling her to you.

You kiss.

Over and over again, you kiss:

so many quick little pecks in a row.

I hope you don't

kiss your mother like that,

but is SHE your mama bird?

It's like you take nourishment

from her kisses.

Is she dropping

food into your mouth?



So greedy,

can't get enough.

Of her time, either.

The odd purity that comes

from being complemented

for the first time this way.

How she leans against your knee,

she's the missing puzzle piece.

The crook of her neck, there,

just there.

The pressure where she uses you

for a chin rest.

During any violent-as-you-wish

T.V. show and

she'd even be

cool to chill with you when

you're with your bro's.

Though alone time is the best.



All that you could ask for,

through hills and valleys

you ride along.

Everything is smooth and firm,

smooth and firm.

Smooth, no hiccup in the road.

Firm is the belief in

the reliability of the course.

They're hot;

the heat

rushes through them,

complete.

Ain't never gonna feel

this way again.

Not with anybody else.

You two could lie in bed all day.



We're making relationship flambe.

A secret recipe of

inside jokes and

somebody finally wanting your ingredients,

lit afire by some mystery combustible.

You'd deny 'til you were hoarse

that it's only flash in the pan.



Until one day, it seems like-

how can you have

all these shared memories,

all this love,

yet it's still as if the person standing there

is barely the same person from before?



No more pulling her frontward or backward

by her belt loops,

always pulling her toward

the pulse of your passion.

But  the beat of love's life, at least,

grows faint, and she threatens

to take you out with it.

He'd seen her raise the gun,

for all the good it did.

A bullet hole in his forehead

And it's like his third eye's crying blood.



He didn't want to see

what he saw too long ago.

And he just delayed their misery.

Do you take your meat rare?

This cut's dripping in disillusion,

the animal neutralized, a dead

bag of blood and bones.

No; you're still

all-too human, though.

Alone in a room, it's all you can do

to remember to breathe.

But that's step one.
FRITZ Jul 9
inhalexhale

( you are now aware of your breathing )

thump|pmuht

(you are now aware of your heartbeat)

flit-

(how many times have you blinked by now?)

thedeadgrindingofcartilagebetweengossamerbones

(stop moving , relax)

take your time

read slowly

the world moves with u
On the notion of "Silence".
Jane Doe Jul 7
I awoke to myself,
No one.
Nothing more than howling smoke,
Tiptoeing through the silence of night.
I had dissipated,
A mere observer,
An echo of things former,
Yet no more.
The grace of illumination,
Of substance,
Was more than I could afford,
Greater than my waning motivation would allow.
Truth be told,
It too had dissipated,
Into the cold night,
The dead air.
I awoke to myself,
Nowhere.
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