"elastic" poems
there was a slice of chocolate cake in the fridge
and my sister asked me if i wanted it.
i didn't respond, stared off into space
and continued to smoke my cigarette
in the kitchen because mom was
asleep already and it was 1 am
on a saturday in july
and it was hot and we were both braless and hoping
the single fan on the counter would circulate the air enough
to make us comfortable in the cottage that we called home
that didn't have air conditioning in the middle of the woods.
the three of us hadn't moved for three more hours,
instead spent all of that time talking about nothing
and everything the way sisters do
because sisters eventually end up saying all the words that have
to be said
but each time it sounds new even though it never is.
we're all different but the thing about sisters is
that other people always see you as the same.
we all eventually grew into having brown hair
even though i had been born a redhead
and she had been born blond
and she had been born the same shade of brunette
that still graced her scalp but was thinner than the rest of ours
and fit in an elastic pony tail comfortably
unlike mine, which broke those things immediately
and she, who cut hers all off in hopes
to cleanse herself and
keep herself from being weighed down.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
the river is
drinking it
sequins
blankets
the river runs past
hobos
unidentified
water fowl
two trolls
taking shelter under
the bridge
there’s conversation
in another language
fiendish brains connecting
fiendish yet
beautiful
thunder
tampons
a turtle
a naked boy
on the patio
rain
definitely
rain
unmatched
and the steam
coming from the
bridge
*once there was a troll
on my face
and I swatted it
with a broom
but it came back
it came back
with you*
laughter pounds
with the rain
laughter that wears
emotion like
skin
soft
elastic
still pink
bouncing
on the river’s surface
breaking
absorbed
sustenance for
the trolls
like fiends with faces
like minds with names
these two connect
with spark
and the rain
falls
the stillness under
nature’s
machinery
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 10:26 PM UTC
seductive decay
on summer days we
rode down the river in our ripe age,
careless if the rapids swept us
into their deadly dustpans,
the black hole of water,
the possibility aroused us,
perhaps because it seemed so far away.
and next to the river,
the appalachian townsfolk wandered the deep grass, they
gathered here to see the circling folding-tables,
buy the spread of goods,
the goods are masks.
the masks are of old folks’ faces,
cartoon-like, goofy comic characters in the funny pages.
masks of rubbered wrinkles, permanent,
bulging eyes, whiskered ears that never stop growing, with
an elastic band, you can become an elder.
old age attracts the crowds,
i have a fascination with it myself,
picturing all the stories that have
taken elders to the present,
it’s hard to fake being wise
when you’re forced to think for years.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:36 PM UTC
I’ve been reading a bit about positivity, this past hour.
I have been trying to project what I’ve read, mentally, in scenarios where I’m under stress to see how things work out.
I couldn’t make peace with the fact that sometimes letting go and keeping quiet is the best course of action.
That sometimes, just sometimes, shutting up and letting things happen is the only way to get over a bad situation.
The fallout can be dealt with. The one percent of our animal nature within helps us rebuild every time.
I can feel an uneasiness settling, making its home in the center of my being.
Writhing in malcontent and uneven distaste, counterbalanced hatred for this feeling I’m riddled with. Where is the good in all this?
Is that what forgiveness is? Swallowing the bitter pill? Turning a new leaf?
Among other euphemisms for being a **** up.
Something that’s very hard to do.
Two minds too blind to make themselves up. Nothing is accomplished in confusion.
One kills while the other cries.
Despair and hope side by side, waiting for one to rise and the other to fall.
Positivity is elastic, it can be stretched to fit over what you deem right.
It can be mistaken for a rush of energy, a thirst for life, a sense of achievement, an inebriated night.
All the while festering, brooding, decaying inside, a heart of sadness, that once did smile.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 5:13 AM UTC
Bicycle, Bicycle
Turning the pedal
Some are made of metal
But not the pedal
Some are made of steel
But not the wheel
None are made with plastic
It's not elastic
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 9:59 PM UTC
I am a Province, a State, a Municipality, and a Region.
I am a Soldier, a Pilot, a Minister, and a Legion;
I am a black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A French man, American, Canadian, and Roman.
I am a rap artist, a singer, a slam poet and guitarist;
I dabble in the dark arts accompanied by a Marxist.
I'm a barista, a gas man, a secretary, and Tsarina,
A King and a Queen and a janitorial cleaner.
I am a "lover," a "hater," a "here now" and "there later,"
I am Luke Skywalker, yet at the same time, Lord Vader.
I am a driver, a walker, a rider, a stalker,
A conservative liberal and a well-learned straight-talker.
I am a salesman and clerk,
A criminal and a serf,
The proud owner of a weapon that, while it kills, saves the Earth.
I am a drinker and smoker,
A consumer and broker,
A bomb-maker, con-artist, Priest, and interloper.
I am a Citizen.
Religious and secular,
Macrocosmic, molecular,
Suit wearing, uncaring, emphatic, irregular,
A "packie," a **** a Scrabble fan playing Yahtzee;
A Jihadist, sadistic, addicted to Herodotus,
History is repeated by the philosopher that thought of us.
The eroticist literature towards which we've all lusted;
It looks like the bullets machine-gun is busted.
Indifferent, ecstatic, illicett, erratic,
An infant, a senior, a young man with bad-lip,
A black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A Jew and a Christian, a Muslim musician,
A monarch, elitist, pro-abortion defeatist,
An anarchist, Black Panther, and a rich plutocratic;
I am a citizen,
And as one,
I'm elastic.
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 1:35 PM UTC
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart.
Spilling out snapshot flashes of life like a flick book's muffled cries.
Controversial plastic shell, elastic strap, stick insect mattel covetted for months
until Santa dropped it down the chimney,
almost as fast as she sprogged and regained her figure
- the original scrummy yummy mummy set to spread low self esteem.
My daddy said anyone can crank out a kid like she did,
as my mother ground her teeth to protest on behalf of her traumatised frame.
Strange, I almost became one of the lost - before I grew cells and self,
another fragile foetus swinging on a noose
from gallows where once a ****** failed to stayed closed.
Little life curled tight self soothing sings al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
as I lie beneath my shroud of sadness filled with down shrinking from the light of day
I want to tell you that I love you,
that my heart brays, beats, bleets, breaks, aches for you.
My soul, spirit, self thrice chorus al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
as waters flow from deep to deep
where danger dances and solace is sought
from beyond the fruitless orchards and willows weeping
branches reaching out for you.
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
surrounded by madonna, ***** and all betwixt
spheres of life protruding, pronounced, announcing themselves;
in streets where bundles, terrors, cherubs, banting, brat and bairn alike
shriek, scream, squeal, shout, squalk, squabble, sing
in a cacophony that makes my heart weep and ache in longing
to sing to self in solitude al na tivke iredem bim'nucha.
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
pulsating thoughts, dreams, hopes of you through the whole of me.
Brought to my knees I seek wisdom, guidence, strength to let you go.
The river is waiting for you, you who I hold tight in my caul
trying to trust, seeking strength to hakshev le'ivshat haga'lim
holding the thought of you,
the love of you,
the hope of you
tight in my arms crooning my lullaby of lament
al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
On the land molded by footsteps and ruled by obnoxiously bleached clowns,
Visited by swarms of neighborhood guttersnipes and the opulent from uptown.
Allured by the traditional Irish circus music and the grinding of rusted gears,
To arrive at dawn and to leave only when the night sky is tired of fireworks and flares.
Skittish and gleaming eyes would roll on the floor, struck by daze and lost in wonderment,
At the marvel of giant steel rides and god forsaken and socially foretoken genetic mutants.
The word of a woman with two faces and the boy with a tail would make any catholic priest run.
Amusing the rational ones, alongside the man with elastic skin and the girl with the forked tongue.
The opera lady with outlandish proportions and tumorous lips sings to break a piece of cheap glassware.
Little do people know,that the magician’s red gloves are actually stained with blood of rabbit that disappeared.
Their noses get caught in the medley of fragrances from the exotic perfumes shop,
Blended with the saccharine tang from the stall that sells candy floss and soda pops.
Indulging over the overly priced confectioneries at the stall of the baker with the forbidding grin.
Try it a hundred times,try it a thousand,you’ll never get the fifth one right in the game of rings.
People will come out screaming from the haunted house,only to laugh about it later,
Little do they know,that skeletons that drove them pale and white couldn't get any realer.
They’ll jostle and struggle to make their way through the crowd to various rides and attractions.
Hustling to navigate through the maze the carnival is, encountered by countless illusions.
And once your body wears out and senses give in,that’s when you've truly entered the carnival state of mind.
Your ears stinging ,nose stifled,tongue baffled, eyes exhausted,and your sense of judgment blinded.
That’s when my masked act begins,the most profitable act at the carnival,
Diving into the heart of the crowd,to draw an act of brilliance lasting an ephemeral.
Slithering across the crowd in a different disguise every hour,concealed by stealth.
Sneaking into every nook and corner and slipping my furtive hands into your pockets for a little bit of wealth.
Only to dine with the clowns and the carnival family at the haunted house at the end of the day.
And of course, rabbits for dinner,if the baker may
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 3:13 AM UTC
I am a supreme
Light framed being
Who leaves ferrari's
In the dust
I am sorry for your
Jealousy as I am
Totally terrific
And love wearing
My fabulous coat
Fiercely independent I
Imprint the air with
My personal spots
My proud individuality
Nothing out of reach
I wait for something to inspire
As I hunt lightly
Positioning intelligently
And quickly
Pads on fire
I grab the ground
As I grip the world
With the sharpest claw
As evolving and revolving
Forces compel me with desire
My vibrant cells flicker
Waiting for the right trigger
Spinning and twisting
They collapse into air
As I rush and rush
chasing and chasing
My focus still like stone
Lands lightly like a feather
As I am clear as
Diamond or glass
Empty of thoughts I am a tunnel
The wind blows through
As I run and run
Soft and agile
I can quickly change
Direction or pace
Perfect balance my
Tail acts as a fulcrum
It is as though a
Silver thread was attached
From high up in heaven
Moving on an electric circuit
I am lightning through the air
Stretching like elastic
Expanding into spaces
I become a mile long
Reaching and Reaching
Into proud new places
Slipping through the air
As though someone
Had oiled my hair
I slide weightless
Air born on ice skates
As I catch my hare
With her swiftness
We find she lifts us
With her fire we catch desire
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 6:09 PM UTC
When his eyes first fell upon her
She was choosing avocados
In the fruit and vegetable aisle.
And he watched how her thumbs lingered
On the base of the alligator pear
And pressed, maternally.
He feigned interest in the cabbages
Whilst sensing her delicate architecture
Through his peripheral gaze.
He thought that somewhere,
In real or imaginary life,
They would soon bathe together.
And when they did,
They soaked for years in secrets,
Details suffusing through their lips and arms,
Water-hole satisfaction and moonlit deserts
To make them feel they might have transcended cabbages
And be pervading a rhapsodic realm
They forgot their friends watching in greenery,
Subsumed by each-other,
They felt no need
To live in a world of relativity and apples.
Their love-traced sphere tightened around them,
Until it ****** at the edges of their skin
And wailed when they parted.
Tighter it grew, elastic dug into their humid thighs
Contorting their once harmonic bodies
That used to fit like crosswords.
And they each became ugly to the other
As the seconds ingested their perfection
And they bickered like flailing urchins
In a deep sea soiled darkness.
Decisions were made and paroxysms detonated
And they were taken back by their
Fungal friends with tissue offerings
And ethanol.
Time passed, and memories were binned
Periodically on tuesdays
Until neither knew the other
And they would pass in the supermarket
With no more than a quickened gait
And a silent thud in each ribcage.
But neither could buy avocados.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 12:18 PM UTC
From the ripple in a glass of water
to the sonic boom of this internal
Pompeii, the erosion
of her etymology is the only
sense of movement in her
dilated, cave-pupil eyes, those
two ghost towns spanning
and encircling all the way back,
stretched like an elastic blindfold
past the moment the first brick was laid,
perhaps her first vivid memory,
or anecdote, or first word uttered
in a Cuban slum.
There are mountains of tumbleweed
over the once thriving metropolis
that expanded towards America;
who threw herself into
the architecture of seven pillars,
borne from her land and
minerals. Gone are the
huts that housed her
knowledge of basic motor skills.
The women who once imagined
Mami and Mima as her birth
name now scrub off
the graffiti of her excrement;
they saw a swarm of pink moons
the day she told the same story
to every visitor that came
their way, each day then becoming
a missing surveillance tape, a sinkhole
dismantling the awareness
in her bones and stubborn will,
until she became
these dust-engulfed plains with
a daughter and granddaughter
archeological in their efforts
to chase down the remains
of a girl still breathing in
those eyes from time to time.
Every other ten-millionth blink of
the eye rides the silhouette of a post-infant girl
on the high tides of her quick visit,
looking in horror
as the nation of her life's nightmares,
heartaches, broken promises, romances,
spiritual breakthroughs, life-changing seconds
drowns with morbid unity en cien fuegos,
desperately attempting to assemble
the remnants of her psyche
past her cognitive bloodclots
with the awareness of one
who speaks no languages.
Gone is the moment
she first learned
to feed her several children
before the slip of sunset.
One of seven pillars remain intact,
the others long dismantled of their
stick and straw infrastructures.
One pillar remained,
housed her own colony
for nine months,
and now both descendants
travel the mind of their
greatest influence
with perplexed dedication,
caustic humor the decoy
for swarms of exhaustion
and asphyxiation
from the truthful atmosphere,
reveling in the seconds
of humanity lurking
in an abandoned etymology.
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 11:19 AM UTC
At evening, sitting on this terrace,
When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the mountains of Carrara
Departs, and the world is taken by surprise ...
When the tired flower of Florence is in gloom beneath the glowing
Brown hills surrounding ...
When under the arches of the Ponte Vecchio
A green light enters against stream, flush from the west,
Against the current of obscure Arno ...
Look up, and you see things flying
Between the day and the night;
Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows together.
A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge arches
Where light pushes through;
A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air.
A dip to the water.
And you think:
"The swallows are flying so late!"
Swallows?
Dark air-life looping
Yet missing the pure loop ...
A twitch, a twitter, an elastic shudder in flight
And serrated wings against the sky,
Like a glove, a black glove thrown up at the light,
And falling back.
Never swallows!
Bats!
The swallows are gone.
At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats
By the Ponte Vecchio ...
Changing guard.
Bats, and an uneasy creeping in one's scalp
As the bats swoop overhead!
Flying madly.
Pipistrello!
Black piper on an infinitesimal pipe.
Little lumps that fly in air and have voices indefinite, wildly vindictive;
Wings like bits of umbrella.
Bats!
Creatures that hang themselves up like an old rag, to sleep;
And disgustingly upside down.
Hanging upside down like rows of disgusting old rags
And grinning in their sleep.
Bats!
Not for me!
5.4k
if only
the heart was made of
elastic materials
then just maybe
it will only bend
than
break
©IGMS
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 8:59 PM UTC
They creep me out.
Those sticky-out veins in your neck,
the way they stretch like pythons’ tongues
as if they’re going to snap –
they’ll snap.
Like elastic,
they’ll snap
(just the thought …)
They creep me out,
the fact that they’re so FLESHY
and for some reason,
remind me of goats’ beards
and stringy turkey necks
(I don’t know, but,
just the thought …)
They creep me out.
I’ve got the weird feeling that
they could be snipped away by silver scissors
like loose threads.
They’ll snap.
Like elastic.
They’ll snap.
Stretching,
Stretching
(just the thought …)
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 5:42 AM UTC
i was told not to read that book
it said right there on the cover
that if i did
i would become a scourge
like a hidden genies dagger
the sight of which would terrorize some
and draw others to me
those strange few
who cry to feel it wound their flesh
and crave its rupturing cold edge
an obsession in motion
demanding they lose themselves in the rapture
of dangerous weapons of pleasure and pain
their kiss an obscenity
sure i thought
and as i read it anyway
it's words
where like a cocked gun blasting
a slow-motion bullet
like a bomb in the skull
shattering brains
with a storm of licking tongues
and kicking feet
my death scattered me
into a great light that casts a long shadow
of headless prancing nymphs
their menstruum,
kaleidoscopic winding red ribbons
fruits of both heaven and nightmares
like a river of elastic mouths
shifting form like chewed gum
thunder filled the house
a dark paradise found
lost in the realm of the senses
quaking and torn
from
this gleaming blade
its caress a sanctuary
pulled tight
over searching fingers
that roam for damp places
in a flickering daze
hiding a frozen scowl
in
impossible times
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 3:58 PM UTC
Growing up in a culture where
you are not supposed to exist,
you become accustomed to the generosity
of people trying
to fix you, to
force you into a shape
they can understand.
I did not know how exhausting it was,
trying to remain elastic
in a world that demands us to be static,
trapping us in binary boxes where
we wilt in our confinement but,
against societal expectations,
we refuse to suffocate ourselves
for your comfort.
Together, we will stand in the light,
heads held high with unmatched pride
for we have fought too long and
too hard for our right
to be here
to live silently with
our heads bowed low
any longer.
Jun 9, 2019
Jun 9, 2019 at 12:39 AM UTC
Plastic wires inside my brain
Drastic thoughts still remain
Concrete jungle, no escape
Complete in dream scape
Workers doing endless jobs
Shirkers being called slobs
Scope is far out of range
Hope is someone strange
When time started to run out
Then phantoms silently shout
Never will they be heard
Whether it should be absurd
Playing the same old game
Praying nobody is to blame
Elastic fades away the grain
Plastic wires inside my brain
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
Sia:
And another one bites the dust
But why can I not conquer love?
And I might've got to be with one
Why not fight this war without weapons?
And I want it and I wanted it bad
But there were so many red flags
Now another one bites the dust
And let's be clear, I trust no one
You did not break me
I'm still fighting for peace
Well I've got a thick skin and an elastic heart
But your blade it might be too sharp
I'm like a rubber band until you pull too hard
But I may snap when I move close
But you won't see me fall apart
Cause I've got an elastic heart
I've got an elastic heart
Yeah, I've got an elastic heart
The Weeknd:
And I will stay up through the night
Let's be clear, I won't close my eyes
And I know that I can survive
I walked through fire to save my life
And I want it, I want my life so bad
And I'm doing everything I can
Then another one bites the dust
It's hard to lose a chosen one
Sia and The Weeknd:
You did not break me (You did not break me, no, no)
I'm still fighting for peace
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 1:48 PM UTC
three sets of withered, wrinkly hands
with chipped
tired
pale-pink nailpolish
flutter in the air,
describing.
three froofy perms
one browny-gray
one white
one salt and pepper
bob
jutting forward,
one
wobbles a little.
Grandma wears
a green-foam party hat
with a thin, white elastic band
that runs under her wrinkled chin
it sits atop her fuzzy perm
comically...
she smiles
at me.
"Ah! my cappuccino! you remembered i like it, didn't you?"
she chucks her great-granddaughter
under the chin,
grins
"oohh! look at these gardening gloves! Cidi! look at these gloves! i like the green ones."
she hands them to her white-haired sister
aunt cidi told me
this year she is
ninety-one
oh, and the gloves were really
blue.
aunt cidi
misses uncle harland
he was buried three or four years ago
in his uniform
i remember sitting next to him
at awkward family reunions
eating hotdogs
i never saw so much mustard
in my life
he could never hear me
when i tried to talk to him
but he smiled
anyway.
the talk turns serious
suddenly
over our black coffee
crossed legs
sweaters
and chocolate cake
grandma turns grim
in her lime-green party hat
"did you end up killing that trumpet vine in your yard, Jeanie?"
aunt jeanie's head wobbles a bit
she squints
wrinkles her nose
"i TRIED to!"
she scowls.
schemes of ******
plotted by three chunky-earringed
sweet
old ladies
who are a little late
for the 1940's
but never too late
for a handsome
soldier
"we're older..."
says aunt jeanie
"but not THAT old!"
they all
giggle.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 7:42 PM UTC
get me a plastic girl,
and i'll sing to her my plastic words
i'll giver her the plastic world
and we'll live in a plastic house
with a plastic cat and a plastic mouse
a plastic heart for a plastic mouth
plastic inside, and plastic out
an elastic skin for a fancy crowd
a plastic window and a plastic couch
where i'll sit alone with my plastic doubts
watching the plastic rain cold and loud
drinking away the plastic south
filling myself with that plastic asteroid
i hear a plastic voice and black plastic joy
i have a plastic sorrow and my plastic toys
there's no tomorrow just this plastic void
can you see the smile and my plastic poise
painted classic pink on my plastic floyd
plastic me in this plastic noise,
a plastic droid.
©writeweird
Apr 11, 2019
Apr 11, 2019 at 11:56 AM UTC
*the state or quality of being elastic.
flexibility; resilience; adaptability: a statement with a great elasticity of meaning.
buoyancy; ability to resist or overcome depression.
Physics. the property of a substance that enables it to change its length, volume, or shape in direct response to a force effecting such a change and to recover its original form upon the removal of the force.*
are you ready?
here it comes!
Slap!
having slapped you
with, to kind attention,
you may now recover
your original form,
when there was
no grief, no distress,
the great clarity
of eying the day's birth,
sweetly and innocently.
once again, you are
buoyant,
molecules of polluted memories,
erased.
wind scattered, gone,
blackboard erased,
whiteboard replaced.
you have been reminded,
even reprimanded,
for forgetting your
elasticity.
life, what ever that be,
is constant motion,
a reshaping of the heart,
for the heart has
no unique shape.
it's adaptation,
it's elasticity,
it's genetic forgive and forget ability,
is legend, is you,
you are legend,
You are elastic.
the human hallmark impressed
in the palms of your hands,
that cannot be erased
by time, fatigue, failure, or anger,
the hands that mold,
re-form for every need,
for every handhold,
for different are:
The hands that open closed fists
The hands that wave hi
The hands that are first to touch
and the last to leave,
waving goodbye,
elastic - tender when tender needed,
strong when strength essences.
so be elastic,
remember to be
ecstatic
remember
when you do,
you need show proofs.
Prove it to me.
Prove it to yourself.
shake, kiss, dare hug,
the one who needs reminding
that life is elastic,
even more than you.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 5:07 AM UTC
She might laugh if she read this
at the flat little version of her
that lives in my mind.
She may laugh
at my comparison of her
to a hideous sea spider
but hear me out
it could be touching.
David Foster Wallace wrote:
*“Since pain is a totally subjective mental experience
we do not have direct access
to anyone or anything’s pain but our own;
and even just the principles
by which we can infer that others experience pain
and have a legitimate interest in not feeling pain
involve ******** philosophy—
metaphysics, epistemology, value theory, ethics.”
*"[Lobsters] do have an exquisite tactile sense,
one facilitated by hundreds of thousands of tiny hairs
that protrude through their carapace.
Although encased
in what seems a solid, impenetrable armour,
the lobster can receive stimuli and impressions from without
as readily as if it possessed a soft and delicate skin.”*
and so
“We lift lobsters out of the bag
or whatever retail container they came home in
…whereupon some uncomfortable things start to happen.
However stuporous the lobster is from the trip home, for instance,
it tends to come alarmingly to life when placed in boiling water."*
As much as I cannot comprehend the pain
of the exquisitely tactile lobster
in a *** of boiling water,
I wonder if I could
walk a mile in a lobster’s 8 minuscule shoes
and I wonder
what it might mean or not mean to her
with her armoured yet acute exoskeleton
to be back at home with her father.
They might try to butter you up
or snap elastic bands
around your oversized claws
and use a wooden spoon
to try and nudge your thrashing, clinging arms
back into the ***
but remember:
lobsters can live to be over 100 years old
and grow to over 20 pounds in size
which is very large for an aquatic insect
and remember that they are marine crustaceans of the family Homaridae, characterized by five pairs of jointed legs, the first pair terminating in large pincerish claws.
And DFW famously said,
“Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.”
and he's not a lobster either
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
Bright buds hang precarious on their limbs. Their hundreds of digits green and supple sway as the winds try gently at first to shake them from their perches. They snap back, their ties elastic, always bending.
The wind struck harder the third time. It caught them off guard, swinging back to face the sun. It barreled over them like a train, limbs snapped like bones under tons of industrial revolutionary steel, the cracking brings tears to the eyes of passersby.
They were so green, so verdant was their exuberant friendship, covered in rosy flesh and sturdy bark, ring after ring of tribulation and triumph, but it fractured like a wish bone. She, Persephone, prosecutor of Her, Demeter, was judge of them both, prisoner of herself.
Solitary confinement.
She tugged at her half, she needed the wish, She need for Demeter to see that She needed wishes just like the rest of us.
Demeter, jury. 12.
Her crime: attempted impartiality, balancing a utilitarian ideal that we can divide our attention based on who needs it most. She cannot be tried on account of her inability to read Braille ciphers in gestures, ****** expressions, and Tumblr posts.
Demeter tugged at her half, but only enough to show the other that she was there,
but consistently there.
It wasn’t enough.
Snap.
No marrow could be found.
Where flesh was meant to be dripped rot, an odor of resentment filled their nostrils, it choked Demeter, as Persephone had been choking for years.
This resentment, this cancer, this jealousy, it grew inside of Persephone like a tumor, days from metastasizing, the spread could have killed them.
Amputate.
You two are a tree. Bright buds dangling from every limb, they are still soft and green and supple at their ends.
You two are still growing.
Persephone will cut out this cancer, and She will heal herself, scar tissues covered by broadleafs.
You will soothe them for her. And you will see past the rosy flesh what pain it may hide.
And you two will grow. Roots firm, faces braced against the wind, and limbs always turned towards the sun.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 5:36 PM UTC
Reaching out [to you] with hands
that kneaded dough before dawn,
and bleached kitchen worktop while
bread rose in the oven.
My skin carries a chill brought in
from the garden- And
my hair, damp under the elastic
I tied it back with, smells of
almond-oil conditioner.
These old clothes
have been folded with lavender,
for too long, in a drawer-
And the knees of my jeans are black,
with fine-foam-dust, from carpet
I’m part-way-through fitting.
My toes are cold and my feet are grubby
‘cause I didn’t wear shoes
when I hung out the washing.
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 9:40 AM UTC
How can he be so cocky, fight like rocky
talking in morse code, like a walkie talkie
how can he be so cold, like an ice cube to hold
so bold like a robot that can't be controlled
how can he be so sarcastic, ******* spastic
no fantastic antics seen in plastic
won't bend and won't stretch like elastic
doing flips like a drastic gymnastic
possessed with true ability, like a runners agility
but no flexibility when it comes to futility
a never seen utility with no docility
showing capability, breaking through the fragility
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 12:58 PM UTC