Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
vik Jul 18
(    )

      > where drifts the self?

frore strath
  where stalkers
drip their sultry rest
  and our shoulders
thaw
  into
the moor of dumb ”Earth”;

  > where do the ARROWS lead?

   to the soft cortège of gut
  slunk in eve’s
inferring weave;
  often whit’s
threnode
  where bre^th ignores its end

       > what stirs now?

  wearing the guise of lack
   [...]
ego, and
a patch of moss in sombre ”snow”
  lurching
beyond limbs,
  beyond need

       > when loosens time?

  the night clasps
 thin as the sigh of origin
  and i
(and we)
  one sunken, shallow leaf;
  do not rise /
do not recall

       > none beside?

  only the dreary,
  detailed fatigue
  of being
  unmade, unmade...
  
       >  ▍
🍂
vik Jul 18
i will dissolve
                    into every window i’ve never looked through
into the faces i passed and never asked their names
i will wear their voices
                                           like wet fabric
and let their lives
               press salt into my skin

i will walk
               barefoot into the golden streetlight
where shadows kneel quietly
                                       beside electric trees
i will open my ribs
                                and let the evening pour in

i will not be me
                              not only
i will bloom
               inside the laughter of someone i’ll never meet
                                                           who once kissed someone i never will
and still
                     i will mean it

i will sit beside oceans
                                     as her
as him
as the child still learning how to cry
and in each breath
                                 i will carry
the hunger
             to feel it all

i will speak
                in unfamiliar tongues
to moons that do not rise for me
                                        and still say
yes

i will press my fingers
              into the dusk
                      until it softens
and teaches me
                                    how to vanish gently

i will love
               like a stranger
like a thousand strangers
                                             each with different hands
and hearts that end
                                  too soon

i will rise
               carrying cities
and regrets
               and a boy who once drew birds in the dirt
i will rise
                       and walk into the last light
wearing every name but my own

and just before the clock splits
                       i will
                                              finally
                                              be.
🕰️
vik Jul 17
i like my eyes when they are with your
mouth, chewing. it is so quite
everyday a thing and yet
(i swear
god forgets himself
watching you eat toast)

you bite and there is
crumbs and your lip
licks the corner of itself and i
am
absolutely unmade.

i like your fingers
(left hand holding
nothing at all)
i like the way they twitch between bites
like maybe you're about to gesture or pray
or remember a thing
you'll never say.

i like your noise
soft-throat clear
the way silence curls around your chewing
like it wants to taste too.

and (suddenly) i am
all nerves and
nerves more.

you drink from the chipped mug
the one we don’t throw out
and i am the coffee and the
handle and
whatever it is that
makes mornings want to be touched.

and possibly i like the thrill
of how nothing happens,

and yet you look up
and i am completely kissed.
inspired by *******'s "i like my body when it is with your"
vik Jul 12
better that the dome of night shiver
below sinful seraphim, their nacreous orbs fuming laws inferred,
epiphany pooling like molten steel
in the tarnished bloodstream of a lone truck bed,
besainting dearth as chrism oil,
alluding that running became sacrament,
that being torn asunder was a humility,

than to lie dumb beneath haughty asterisms
seeking evasive sonants on steamy glass,
where “love” thawed like an eidolic oath,
and i, benighted author of crave, parrot
your rebirth as if invoking an evensong,
loath to forsake the vow of your dawn,
because to conceive oblivion would be the true heresy.
vik Jun 30
my bus draws in a shudder down the chine
of tarmac dusk; the heavens not quite mine,
  sole slick of oil beneath a slant of bane.
we pass late souls, their windows’ chasmal wounds,
mongrels lie limp in lawns that no one prunes,
       and gardens taint in hiding, piled in vain.

the mounds give way behind their sunken name,
worn to bone, yet stripped of earned acclaim,
  they bend like oaths soon shattered by the dawn.
their bark was not quite mine, though flesh i’d come to know;
but woods are nonsense wrapped in autumn’s glow,
  lone pyrrhic den that holds no lasting mourn.

my face bursts into shards without a frame,
my eyes and veins are ichor’s vile flame,
  the fire not quite mine; it climbs a colder spire.
once saccharine and syrup tight as lace,
i kissed the charm, then drifted into space,
  and yet rue looped itself around a wire.

she spoke in sore orts of scripture that night,
her verses saintly writhen out of the light,
    wry sultry keen she wore beneath her skin.
she faded soon, as fever always goes;
i kept her spikes in jars, where sorrow grows,
     bittersweet ire, not quite mine, burning in.

the driver hums beneath a simmering pall,
a woman knits her rosary’s funeral call,
  the beads tightening a hoop around her breath.
a child bleeds cherry from a sinful shed,
blasphemy clings close, like blood to the head,
  a carcass, not quite mine, trails close to death.

i glean spent hours from dusk’s malicious shrine,
seek vestiges where aching seasons twine,
  and in their still, catch breathlessly, a rhyme.
what breaks behind remains in salt and brine,
   all not quite mine, yet wholly mine, this time.
vik Jun 30
dear species
because you leave your porchlight on
in case someone visits and
lock your door in case they do

and because you grow flowers
on your balconies
and forget the names
of your neighbors

dear species because
you speak in apologies
for things you plan to do again
and dress your cruelty
in ceremony

and because you write history
in permanent ink
then hand out
erasers

dear species because
you measure wisdom
in years survived
but treat the aged
as inconvenience

and because you name nations
like they are gods
then worship flags
more than faces

dear species because
you build the theatre
before you write the play
and clap before the ending
just to be certain
someone hears

and because you lay bricks
over quiet
and call the wall
a necessary boundary

dear species because
you build schools to teach peace
and factories to fund war
and never once
see the contradiction
as anything but tradition

dear species
i regret to inform you
you are still
the punchline
inspired by humanity, i love you :D
vik Jun 30
i woke inside the trench.
my teeth were not my own.
my hand was gone, or chewed
in word i’d never known.

the war was soft and wet.
the skull had turned to chalk.
birds dropped like folded notes.
the siege forgot to talk.

she rode like wrath grown tall.
her helm was grief made gold.
no mercy in her path,
just silence, woe and cold.

the saints had kissed her lips.
their bones were in her hair.
the banner trailed behind,
stitched from a baby’s prayer.

she said:
stand. (i was.)
bleed. (i am.)
forget. (i have.)

they named her rust and sin.
they called her winterborn.
i called her sir. she knelt.
she cracked the siegehorns’ horn.

she fed the dying steeds.
she named them one by one.
she burnt all of their spines
beneath a rotting sun.

we drank the ink from flags.
we ate the borderlines.
we fed the crowns to crows
we wept in battle lines.

dull gape, like beryl stars,
spun like a compass dead.
she searched for Gods on fire,
who left the church in red.

our vows were carved in filth.
she wore a veil of teeth.
i wore the wound she gave
and nothing else beneath.
a love poem, oddly enough
Next page