#escapril2020
the subtle difference
between
holding a hand
and
chaining a soul
between
burying a self
and
heading from the dead things piled up behind you
leaning
(isn't love)
a transaction
integrity for security
(isn't love either)
kisses are not contracts
presents are not promises
defeat comes into the bar —
—familiar squabbles dizz out the bartender
drunk—young love
burning down onto the dance floor
holding on tightly to that known
O' Captain, my Captain!
treacherous are the roads of the morrow
—its grounds, too unstable for plans
futures have a tendency of falling flat—.
a dulcy dandy melody
that of feet walking past—.
i endure
with the grace of a woman
not the grief of a child
i learn
to take in warm loving arms
my sunken ship
back to shore—
Apr 12, 2021
Apr 12, 2021 at 9:35 PM UTC
(in love)
The curves of her body
Glisten in the moonlight
As she lies still
Fallen
by the pond
I want to trace them
with my lips
I tell her
she is
exquisite
and her giggle
rings in my ears
little bells
signalling spring
The curves of her body
Glisten
As the first rays of sun
Greet her
she whispers
She is broken
I want to
caress
her wounds
they are deep
dark
unhealed
And as I touch them
We can pretend
She is cured
My words drip like honey
They form a ribbon
With which I wrap her
I insist
She is perfect
How can she not be?
Dec 2, 2020
Dec 2, 2020 at 9:02 AM UTC
The halo shines iridescent
Above my head
Once gleaming purple
Once pink
Then silver
Through the translucent green
I can see
How it incarcerates me
My skin of porcelain
is wrapped in silk
pastel
pink, ironed
it mustn’t have a crease
I twirl gently,
Gracefully,
Round the pole
Past the
Cumulus
Neon
Lights reflecting
Off my manicured nails
They scream privilege.
Jun 2, 2021
Jun 2, 2021 at 11:21 PM UTC
T all grapevines entwine with the
O verhead wires and lead to
U nwilling leaves now home to a
G iant green guest with the
H olographic horrifying eyes.
T roubled dreams the bug is dreaming.
I mpossible luck keeps it away from
N earby spider webs and
Y ellow giant villains.
T angled in untangled thoughts of
H orrid dreams of hope
I t sits on its green leaf and is
N ow watching flowers bloom.
G ratefullness swells its tiny heart.
Apr 19, 2020
Apr 19, 2020 at 4:34 PM UTC
I sit in silence with my mother because how am I meant to say the roots of everything I despise about myself lie at her feet?
That I've learnt to refuse to let her make me feel shame and guilt for eating?
That to this day I look at my body and hear the echos of insults she hurled at eight year old me about the
fat on my hips,
their dips and dimples?
That my partners hands caress that same flesh
and she kisses away my hatred?
I sit in silence with my mother because she doesn't talk, she shouts
out of anger at the cage she's in.
And in her volume I hear the echos of everything she's been unable to achieve,
all her hopes and dreams cruches by pre-conceived ideas of femininity and society's prying eye?
Can never ask why she allowed herself to be chained, and silenced.
Why her present is only half the shadow of her past.
I sit in silence with my mother because how can I say everything I take pride in is what she hates most about me?
That my sexuality is not a choice, but I've chosen that label and I treasure it?
That femininity to me is hair where I can see it,
swearing when people can hear,
and unapoligetically taking up space others would rather I vacate?
That my rejection of faith isn't a reflection of her,
but rather proof she raised someone who learnt to challenge before they accept?
That I'm strong and resiliant
but still soft around the edge?
Apr 13, 2020
Apr 13, 2020 at 6:51 PM UTC
As his limbs stroked along the bottom
with all the power he held, in slow motion,
there was a case to be made
for the existence of the magical and the occult.
Kaleidoscope webs covered his back
in what looked like infinite rainbow nets
each brushing against a bone or muscle
unseen in the plain light before.
His hair was softened by the absence of air,
each strand fainting at a different angle
begging to be touched
right before being pulled in one direction
of precise yet strenuous motion.
All neglected now was illuminated.
Rarely things burn their way into memory
the way a face can be filtered through transparency,
distorted by liquid out of proportion
yet still so charmingly calm and surreal
all you can do is look away
and then stare again.
And what bottomless greed it is indeed
to wish to posses a moment like this for eternity.
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 3:16 PM UTC
Or maybe Heaven is all that adapts,
reshapes and moves serenely along
like water.
And maybe Hell is all that doesn't.
Apr 11, 2020
Apr 11, 2020 at 1:59 PM UTC
I could swear I felt the sting,
as you injected yourself in my bloodstream.
In my defence,
I was high for the most of it.
I was drunk on all of that
your sparkly wings offered back.
And your melancholic gaze
I've only seen in fiction since.
I'll admit to my arrogance
to assume parasites were mostly worms,
when I know there are still songs
about pretty, magic, folk.
And I can feel myself both host and feast,
and all you see is just a treat.
And if I had soul, it's now ablaze,
and now all I do is waste my days.
And at this point in space and time,
your words occupy my mind.
Apr 10, 2020
Apr 10, 2020 at 3:52 PM UTC
At the top of the hill
two thieves stood in the midday sun
with their faces lifted upwards.
Down there,
in the fear-ridden town
the only lights they had
was of reading lamps, screens, street and car lights,
and an occasional candle in the dead of night.
Bottles were fished out of pockets,
corks were unscrewed,
bottoms were lifted,
laughter was heard,
spells were whispered,
sunrays were enchanted with song,
so enchanted they stopped dead in their step,
bows were held up,
arrows were shot,
grass was searched,
light was conserved in bottles.
Flickers in pockets for the darkest days.
Apr 10, 2020
Apr 10, 2020 at 3:17 PM UTC
You were small - the town was big.
Your small hands - the big building.
Your small body - the familliar spaces.
Your small step - the close distances.
Time moves slow - stuck at a standstill.
Nowhere to go - somewhere to be.
The people you know - the whole community.
Being welcomed - near complete isolation.
Accepted - you stay.
Rejected - get out before you're unable to.
Your victorous return - a negligible event.
The people you knew - the people you've never seen.
The person you've become - the people who never left.
Big streets - shrunk.
Short distances - longer than ever.
Things you have seen - engraved with nostalgia.
Things that were unseen - beautiful jewels.
Time is unmoving- now you have space to thing
Nowhere to go - nowhere to be.
Apr 8, 2020
Apr 8, 2020 at 6:02 AM UTC
Jimmy was tripping.
This morning was a while ago.
Last night was a few days back.
Today was Tuesday
and Monday was last week.
He remembered what happened
a few weeks ago last Friday.
And March seemed to be
the longest month he's had here.
February was sometime last year,
January was as far off as WW2
And December was as old as Rome.
This evening seems like a hazy plan,
and tomorrow was too far into the future,
Jimmy's mind wasn't spacious enough
to store lines as big as next week.
He couldn't make out the words on TV
they've got his eyes unfocused,
but even through the fog,
he couldn't understand
and at the same time not understand
the news.
He wasn't on drugs.
But his mind was messed up.
He'd been in lock down,
four weeks now,
barely did he leave the house,
or make out what time had passed.
This was his only safe way out.
Apr 7, 2020
Apr 7, 2020 at 10:32 AM UTC
He is able to get addicted to anything,
so how did they expect from him,
to recognize obsession?
Apr 7, 2020
Apr 7, 2020 at 8:14 AM UTC
The stars sparkle like
LED lights
Hung upon the walls of a celestial dorm
A college student in the skies
studies the small creatures below
She writes her essays on myths
that humans told long ago
Her professor grades the paper
judging not on fact, but on prose
Classmates chat in the halls
About classes, about dating, about parties
But the lunar lady continues watching
with a cautious eye
As we go about our daily lives
Apr 7, 2020
Apr 7, 2020 at 7:13 AM UTC
You have to see Titan
(though there are no sirens)
from where I am standing.
(Vonnegut lied.)
When stars up here burst,
they don't just combust,
the shrapnel gets tangled
in your hair.
If you stretch down your feet
it's a pine's top you'll hit.
All the trees are so tall,
and ever so green.
I like the view from up here,
where everything's clear.
Where the days are so long
and nights are so warm.
Should you wish to visit,
forget about physics,
hop on a bumble bee,
and fly over to me.
Apr 5, 2020
Apr 5, 2020 at 3:26 PM UTC
An incomplete list
of my modest pleasures may consist of:
unninterrupted sleep at night,
time to lay in bed in the morning,
the coffee machine's murmur,
the odd taste of coffee,
the odd taste of water,
homemade jam,
finishing a piece of work,
swimming or floating in water,
books with appealing hard covers,
good books,
good stories told well,
walking in a park or forest,
cold, wet, spring air,
warm feet,
standing by a river,
listening to rivers go,
looking up to tree tops hiding the sky,
blue skies,
green grass,
sunlight on the face,
courageous flowers blooming,
a hat that fits,
shoes that fit,
clothes that fit,
charming someone kind,
being charmed by someone kind,
first kisses,
eager **********
joyful ***
speaking with an old friend,
speaking with a close friend,
speaking with a funny friend,
being kindly teased,
holding a friend's hand,
good music,
dancing,
singing,
sending and receiving postcards,
completing a piece of work,
rain on windows,
washed clothes and sheets,
showers
flowers in pots and vases
and you.
....
Out of all the earthly pleasures
I believe I want you most of all,
my dear, my sweet.
Apr 4, 2020
Apr 4, 2020 at 2:42 PM UTC
she yells from the bottom of a well,
thinking someone will hear her.
no one does, so she climbs.
as she's climbing, she hears a voice
that voice sends her tumbling
toward the bottom of the well.
she yells until she can't anymore
bursts into tears, curls up into a ball -
and desperately wants to be heard.
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 9:50 PM UTC
underappreciated-
most do not see her beauty -
their dreams pull them away.
some eyes burn from the midnight oil -
to them, she may seem like a hallucination.
others run too quickly to start a conversation.
a rare few wait for her -
they appreciate her beauty,
continuing the conversation in awe.
she does not live for the people of this earth,
but she provides for them no matter what.
Apr 2, 2020
Apr 2, 2020 at 11:01 AM UTC
Time to the storks
moved as a wheel moves -
it was going in a circle but moving in its track.
They were on time this year- as they were on time every year.
They gracefully landed in the high above places
where they nested every year.
The oldest was Mr. Stork who lived on top
of the townhouse's chimney that was last seen puffing
back in Febuary 2001.
Somewhere in his wings he remembers
distant memories of a missing family
but that was oh so long ago.
The first few weeks were proper with the darling sun,
the children shouting and pointing, the spring soil wet,
the snowdrops, the tulips and whatnot things moving.
But then the snow came back.
From nowhere.
And it scared everything away.
It scared the people, the flowers, the sun and the food,
the warmth in his feathers, the red in his beak
and he was now dipped in a sickly purple.
And the air was white from the ice, and he
who was mostly silent,was forced to call out
as his nest was coming undone.
And the wheel fell off its track.
And his calls remained unanswered..
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 6:37 AM UTC
It had to be stopped around the time
I felt the yellow messenger of rot
on my teeth as my breath was
slowly beginning to smell like
corpses in piles at the bottom
of a ***** brown lung pushing
the nicotine sedative all across
my thickened bloodstream.
Months later when my nails were not
tinted yellow all the way
to the end just like my teeth were
nearly clean again like the sheets
in which I was able to get better rest reversing all that was broken
begun to get easier just a little bit.
But I suppose that very few things
are so broken they can't be regrown.
Apr 2, 2020
Apr 2, 2020 at 4:43 PM UTC
Dawn's the crisp blue line
crossing poisonous pink clouds,
the water-soaked broom
sweeping off the tiredness under the rug,
and the mother's cold, wet palm
brushing away the fever-fueled nightmares
from the night before.
Dawn's the chirp of hues shifting
from suffocating scarlets and weary purples
to sun-kissed whites and breathy blue.
Dawn's the clink
of the glass coffee pitcher
nearly chipping
as it clashes against porcelain cup.
Dear Dawn,
I hope they've told you how wonderful you are!
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 2:14 PM UTC