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 Jan 2014 vik
Lappel du vide
***.
i wish we could have made that word into friction,
and droplets of ocean streaming off our bodies.

i've always thought that maybe something could grow
like a plant
between us,
plant its roots through our faces.
i always imagined that one harsh summer, sweaty
blanket night, after open mic,
we'd run the streets barefoot,
and you'd sing tom waits in your
rusty voice, like a garden pail
left out for a couple springs.

and you'd take me somewhere frightening and strange,
where i've never been, even though
my feet roam this tiny town even when my eyes are
sleeping.
then i'd tell you
that
heaven is a foreign concept to me,
and you'd whisper
that there is nothing realer than this earth,
and you would say it with passion, with a bite and a kick in it,
like good hot sauce;
your lips moving harsh and fast against
my stretched neck,
its skin begging for the weight of your kisses.

and then we'd recite poetry with our bodies
under a summer moon,
like an empty plate,
with august skin peeling off our bones,
leaving us raw and intertwined,
a knot of ferocious dreams, and thin
crunchy book pages.

words whispered loudly into the sweet
sweat of the dark,
your hands playing me like a violin
my body singing with your touch.

four cigarettes after;
two for our mouths,
and the others for our hungry hearts.
in growing up
the one most commended,
most grown,
most love laden

(She floats over
in the moonlight
She walks,
chin tucked,
her garb grazing the withered ground
she ascends into the cold bitter air
her eyes rest on the ground)

experiences,
melt into the bottoms of Her feet
and the cold is the only one to enter her lungs.

permeable only, if through and in
the Good
In my time here,
I have seen that
the elderly are the complete individuals.
They have seen the beauty in good
they feel the pain and sorrow
both of the world, in and through the world.
In this place, we learn to live.
 Jan 2014 vik
Kaitlin
I'm addicted to this pain
Addicted to you
Addicted to the stain
Addicted to misuse
The neglection you give me?
I'm addicted to that too
I'm addicted to the abuse you give me times three
I'm addicted to forgiving your mistakes towards me
Addicted to being tired of this suppression
Addicted to this thing called depression
Addicted to the blade
that cuts into life
Addicted to no longer being a hero in the strife
I'm addicted to people with an extensive diction
I'm addicted to being an addict with an addiction
The rose is obsolete
but each petal ends in
an edge, the double facet
cementing the grooved
columns of air—The edge
cuts without cutting
meets—nothing—renews
itself in metal or porcelain—

whither? It ends—

But if it ends
the start is begun
so that to engage roses
becomes a geometry—

Sharper, neater, more cutting
figured in majolica—
the broken plate
glazed with a rose

Somewhere the sense
makes copper roses
steel roses—

The rose carried weight of love
but love is at an end—of roses

It is at the edge of the
petal that love waits

Crisp, worked to defeat
laboredness—fragile
plucked, moist, half-raised
cold, precise, touching

What

The place between the petal’s
edge and the

From the petal’s edge a line starts
that being of steel
infinitely fine, infinitely
rigid penetrates
the Milky Way
without contact—lifting
from it—neither hanging
nor pushing—

The fragility of the flower
unbruised
penetrates space
 Jan 2014 vik
Roshnai
Your prizes are collecting dust by their phones
But pretty women you've won don't seem pretty anymore
There's a penny to your name but not one for your shame
Take a breath, restless one; your love-rut's back on
The conquest is done, your charming guile has won.

Come with me.
Pause with me.
Welcome this hollow with me.
Feel the ache from relentless chase.
Let's write a little
cry a little
moan a little
But love a lot.

I'll make you my favourite acid, little trips ever night
A giggle for a kiss a kiss for a giggle till we're giddy-light
You'll tell me lies, lots of pretty sachharine lies
I'll smile, invent a book worth of fiction for my mind
Then just when I'm chips in, cut my wings mid-flight

I promise, for you I'll cry.
 Dec 2013 vik
Maddie Fay
counting breaths and blinks
makes it easier to detach
from hands where hands aren't wanted,
and lips and teeth and tongue and ****
and heat and sweat and rhythm.
heartbeats and seconds in packets of four
are better for the brain
than fists and blood and fear,
and ticks of the clock and fingertips tapping in time
beat uncertainty and helplessness
and not knowing if he's going to live
any day of the week.

i can wash my hands until they're red
(beet red, beat, beet red, beat)
and raw
(and dry and cracked and bleeding and bleeding).
i can write and re-write
and control and perfect,
perfect the verb because
perfect as an adjective is
impossible
(but nothing less will do).
i can line everything up and count it out even,
in fours or
in thirty-sixes,
(six times six, six six times, perfect square, perfect square),
and i can hope
that my neat tall stacks of the things i need to control
will finally outweigh
the scattered mountains
of the things i never could.

i can tell you how and when and where and what,
just please don't ask me why.
 Dec 2013 vik
A
you touched me
 Dec 2013 vik
A
We spoke in tongues that day,
Your fingers trailed my body like
a harlot skimming through the bible finding her daily grace.

The Sun, her majesty, jealous of the
nervous heat that fought for a moment of breath between your satin body and my scarred chest.

Did you know that I almost cried?
Because your touch was everything I feared the most.
Your touch was confidence, maybe love.
It hurt.

We don't speak the same language anymore,
For your fingers,
are too holy for mine.
About a friend, with whom I shared the whole of me. But didn't care.
 Dec 2013 vik
Mary Elizabeth Frye
Do not stand at my grave and weep..
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awake in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft star-shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry..
I am not there. I did not die.
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