#botany
that plant in the window
may well resent those roots
firmly potted and positioned
on that westerly sill
held in place as it is
by those wispy tendrils
straining outwards
desperate for growth
ever-reaching for
the drifting light
of that introverted Sun
evasive though it may be
its potential remains
dirt encrusted and anaemic
as the hidden branching is
neither its stem nor leaf
nor its bud or flower
could realise the heights
that it hopes to achieve
without these buried parts
for though this tangle
is filth-covered and
far from what any wish
to be faced with
when in admiration
of such flora
without this
the evolving maturation
from ceaseless elongation
and meristematic activity
the terracotta on display
could not be filled with
this greenery so vibrant
Dec 9, 2023
Dec 9, 2023 at 9:04 AM UTC
~
*if you're feeling sinister tonight, come inside the darkroom. picture yourself pouring over mental images of a demure young botanist, loitering around the trapdoor of nostalgia, kissing someone new for the first time.
now imagine she is conscious and clustered in titillating blur, her smile beachy and airborne, with only the slightest suggestion that something troublesome is lurking underneath.
can you see her double exposure? totally tranquil, she poses with an arsenal of poisonous plants, as if she’s already slipped their venom into your tea.*
~
Apr 5, 2023
Apr 5, 2023 at 12:17 PM UTC
dandelions
I sail to you through the great unknown
And tip toe on your white lines of gray matter
An acidic, atomic baby light blonde
with a heart of stone trapped in a yellow rain cloud
dandelions
In the syndicate of the hazel night moon
I smell their broken stems of wire
Wrapping my thighs in a sealed cocoon
Dancing in a brimstone fire
Melting in the midnight winds
dandelions
She can’t wait to roam free tonight
Feel the air flow between the thistle of my thyme
And find her midtown morphine
To soothe the demons, dancing in her mind
dandelions
Dispersing on a front porch swing
I scatter in the wisp of an ivory snow
Break a rhyme scheme, scream for rain
Pray for laughter, bleed for growth
Dec 17, 2020
Dec 17, 2020 at 1:02 PM UTC
A freak and fruitful flower
I twirled in a frantic field of dandelions
The roots felt like the bald skin crawling on my bones
as they ****** the sunlight off of the structure of my stems
With the wisdom that the asphodels would find out
About the moment I planted myself in a hurricane last summer
He asked me to stay until the lilies grew back
Then his garden began to grow inside of me
during the spring time, and I think I must have drowned
Or maybe it was Autumn, when I found my piece of mind
I sat still long enough to allow myself to stay
If I refused to swallow the worms who tied up my tongue
If I was pure enough to drink the poison out of my vines
In a diligent essence of dignity, I might have tried
but in a clear perception of reality, I realized
I would always remain
A freak and fruitful flower
Same as I was, same as I ever would be.
Dec 17, 2020
Dec 17, 2020 at 12:55 PM UTC
Fragrant tinted lure
Saccharine glistening sundew snare
Cruel allure to rule
Sep 22, 2020
Sep 22, 2020 at 2:32 PM UTC
Wizard of the earth; I am the botanist of yore -
Conversing with the stars until the stars can hear no more.
I read them pharmacopoeias from catacombs of lore
To fill the vacant sky with verse of those who lived before.
Poet of the sky and the ever glowing sun -
A seven-headed serpent lays in wait upon my tongue.
I sing in sacred stanzas from a phantom in my lungs
To make my spirit rise before the day is yet begun.
Jul 3, 2019
Jul 3, 2019 at 12:35 AM UTC
We are our favourite flowers
Steeped in a full vase
Seasons pass -
with the dipping water.
We forget / or were not
taught. To add our own flower
food. To cut our own
stems. To cultivate our own
cuttings.
Seek not to be
crisp, divine, distinct
For it is already
apparent.
Be it if you
are fanned, variegated or needled
voluptuous or diffident
fresh or heartfelt
Or just ****** herbaceous
We are own favourites.
We forget that to be in the vase
was a choice
For we can always resettle, reposition, repot,
for the coming season.
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 2:39 AM UTC
Sometimes they're many
Sometimes they're few
Unpractically pretty
But they will do
Flowers in my garden
The only things certain
The only faces I know
Who'd remain true as they grow
They may blossom like my growing fear
The may wither like my sanity
They are stifled by the thorns
Like the skin I'm in, well-worn
They are suppressed by the weeds
Like the guilt in me
Flowers in my garden
I am quite certain
We're the same
But I'm embodied in flesh
Flowers in my garden
I beg your pardon?
What do you mean that you don't exist?
If you leave, what'll happen to me?
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 5:02 PM UTC
Heart break is the seed that
pollinates from chest to chest.
So it should not come as a surprise when
a crimson rose blossoms behind the sternum
with a wealth of thorns surrounding it.
Evolution has dictated that
If anyone comes too close,
they will get pricked in the process.
A subtle form of protection, but also a warning.
A "Come no further than this."
---
The thing about roses is that
they are capable of self pollinating.
Sometimes we just do this to ourselves.
We get off to our own misery,
and as crude as that sounds,
for a lot of us,
that has been the truth.
A broken heart can only protect itself
the best way it knows how, but
when did protection become repression?
It is too easy for the same thorns that defend the rose
to become its own enemy, choking the flower
out of the nutrients it needs.
We can justify all we want that
if somebody truly wanted to pick us first
to put us first,
then they should be able to withstand
a little pain to reach us...
And some do,
but should that be the standard,
to hurt someone and see if they stay?
That is how cross pollination occurs.
We **** around and hurt people
by refusing vulnerability
that is owed to them.
And after all the ********
the other person can heal
and grow stronger from the experience,
or the rose they have wilts
and a new one blooms in its place,
one that contains undesirable characteristics
that would not have existed if
we had just loved openly in the first place.
Heart break should not beget heart break...
Why do roses symbolize love anyway?
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 4:54 PM UTC
The gallows swing in my gown
how my grievous allure
axiom, snares me down
an appellative of harrowing quintessence
wearing lilies like an aureole
-crowned in by anemone and asphodel
the paraded gait of my soul
absence of faithful apparitions
cogent til their demise by my own dolor
nihility is my dear conviction
to dwell on dreamless sleep once more
alas lucidity comes abrupt
falsehoods pellucid in the eyes of divinity
tainted now i cite apprehension
bear garlands of wormwood, for i am corrupt
still gallows shall swing in my gown
whether in repose or in waking
the gallows swing in my gown
in knots the Styx shall be waiting.
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 10:04 PM UTC
My duvet is a map,
It remembers all I’ve said,
And I’ve slept here and loved here and cried here,
All of my demons, awake in this bed
And I know I’m selfish, I’m unkind,
But I won’t apologise for half my crimes,
Because you’re closed up like a fist,
Ready to strike,
But I’d still lay with you here,
And we can set our fear alight,
I keep waiting for the bad news,
In every declaration,
And do the ghosts of your past,
Saturate our conversations?
I can’t hear you singing in the shower,
But I know the sounds of your heart,
You’ve grown entangled in my muscles,
And to tear you apart,
Would be a haemorrhage,
I would be bleeding soul for hours,
But take all you want from me,
Don’t ever give me flowers,
I can’t stand to watch them wither,
And I never say goodbye,
I'll tattoo a garden on my body,
And those will never die.
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 6:04 PM UTC
It stretches,
Blotting out the sun in jagged ribbons,
Standing below it, my shadow is lost,
Absorbed,
If it fell, so would I.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC