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"gibbous" poems
Published in The Quill on November 19, 2014: http://www.amazon.com/Quill-Fall-2014-ebook/dp/B00PNVT6PG ... On being overweight (whatever that means) Even if you were the moon, they would complain about how much space you took up in the sky, how you were too bright, wanted too much from the stars, demanded more light than the others. And when you shifted, from waning to full to waxing to waning, they would remind you of how instable you were, how much of a hassle it was to keep track of your instability, your need for attention. Have you tried to be a vegan yet? All the stars are doing it. You have tried. In fact, last week was your third try – an attempt, they call it – not enough, they emphasize, try again, they say this as if it is encouragement. That’s when you found them - the celestial crescent, the earthshine, the perilune, how the lacus are lakes without lakes, why the Gibbous is brighter either way, especially during conjunction – all strung together in pearls. You are a full the night you return. As you reflect off the lake, you see Selene, Hecate, Mani, Tsukuyomi, Iah, and Thoth. You tell the stars to look, to breathe your reflection, to succumb to the glow and the beauty of it all, that you are not alone— They laugh. Say how historical that is, how out-of-touch you are, how myths aren’t mirrors, how you - you are not a mystery at all. But when you died – if you died – (we still do not know) - they do not wonder where you went. They spin, spin, spin the entire night home, only once confessing to how empty the sky is without your shine. But every night they burn.
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Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
On being overweight (whatever that means)
Published in The Quill on November 19, 2014: http://www.amazon.com/Quill-Fall-2014-ebook/dp/B00PNVT6PG ... On being overweight (whatever that means) Even if you were the moon, they would complain about how much space you took up in the sky, how you were too bright, wanted too much from the stars, demanded more light than the others. And when you shifted, from waning to full to waxing to waning, they would remind you of how instable you were, how much of a hassle it was to keep track of your instability, your need for attention. Have you tried to be a vegan yet? All the stars are doing it. You have tried. In fact, last week was your third try – an attempt, they call it – not enough, they emphasize, try again, they say this as if it is encouragement. That’s when you found them - the celestial crescent, the earthshine, the perilune, how the lacus are lakes without lakes, why the Gibbous is brighter either way, especially during conjunction – all strung together in pearls. You are a full the night you return. As you reflect off the lake, you see Selene, Hecate, Mani, Tsukuyomi, Iah, and Thoth. You tell the stars to look, to breathe your reflection, to succumb to the glow and the beauty of it all, that you are not alone— They laugh. Say how historical that is, how out-of-touch you are, how myths aren’t mirrors, how you - you are not a mystery at all. But when you died – if you died – (we still do not know) - they do not wonder where you went. They spin, spin, spin the entire night home, only once confessing to how empty the sky is without your shine. But every night they burn.
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14
The wind blows on a restless night No fright, sight or cloud creep around in the tranquility of darkness, A drizzle, brought by a softer breeze from seemingly nowhere drives near, dispersing the light brought by the sweet waning gibbous moon And so, a grand rainbow, yet dim has been cast across the dark sky, filling it with both hope and glamour and blessed optimistic tender, Impulisive shooting stars, racing across the sky and illuminating it, In great numbers, one would think someone let the stars rain down instead, as they shine, then shoot across the horizon, never to bee seen again, each wishing, leaving their bright trails behind as travelers, Appearing like a cosmic chess board, the flare stars dance in a festival of pure energy in the light of a white nights eternal moon, beaming, The legend of a first wish, travelers which bring infinite fortune, brought to those whom believe in a shooting stars power and might, The legend of the second wish, simply infinite power brought in light And the last wish is carried by the realisation of transience, right before the night has come to its end, a last traveler shoots across the sky, it is the wish of immortality, an eternal life which cannot vanish. But, the last wish, is a greater curse than hell or death itself. ~ Umi
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Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 6:04 PM UTC
Yasaka
[new moon] Moon girl is breath and curve. She catches light and throws it back to the universe. You see her and tremble, falling, as she once must have done from some heavenly place. [waxing crescent] Moon girl is wild. You follow her into the forest where she steps barefoot into a stream and takes your hand, water swirling over her feet and hers. She talks about roots and branches and flight. You are in love. [first quarter] Moon girl is dancing. Moving her body, dynamic, unpracticed elegance, shaping space, graceful, unafraid of audience, unafraid of pause, unafraid to bend and swish and rise, flying, electric, boundless. She gets everywhere. In your morning tea, clouds, April storms, wrapped in sparkling strung-out melodies, and especially in your head. You dream of waist, skin, movement holding her and warmth, closeness, desire kissing her and your heart burns soft inside your chest, a lantern lit by lunar beams. [waxing gibbous] Moon girl gives you violets. You give her your hands, open; your heart, open; your soul, open. You give her everything, or you try. [full moon] Moon girl is with you, always, this silver fire here in the filth and blood and terror, head on your shoulder, palm on your skin, speaking to you in ways language cannot, grounding you, saving you, saying your name, holy, lifting you up, repeated tenderness, voice low, eyes deep, glorious, and she is steel, she is iron, she is endless. [waning gibbous] Moon girl smiling. Moon girl watching. Moon girl brave. Moon girl rough and sweet. Moon girl creating. Moon girl radiating. Moon girl moving, toward you. Moon girl. Moon girl. Moon girl.
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Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 7:29 PM UTC
Moon Girl
[new moon] Moon girl is breath and curve. She catches light and throws it back to the universe. You see her and tremble, falling, as she once must have done from some heavenly place. [waxing crescent] Moon girl is wild. You follow her into the forest where she steps barefoot into a stream and takes your hand, water swirling over her feet and hers. She talks about roots and branches and flight. You are in love. [first quarter] Moon girl is dancing. Moving her body, dynamic, unpracticed elegance, shaping space, graceful, unafraid of audience, unafraid of pause, unafraid to bend and swish and rise, flying, electric, boundless. She gets everywhere. In your morning tea, clouds, April storms, wrapped in sparkling strung-out melodies, and especially in your head. You dream of waist, skin, movement holding her and warmth, closeness, desire kissing her and your heart burns soft inside your chest, a lantern lit by lunar beams. [waxing gibbous] Moon girl gives you violets. You give her your hands, open; your heart, open; your soul, open. You give her everything, or you try. [full moon] Moon girl is with you, always, this silver fire here in the filth and blood and terror, head on your shoulder, palm on your skin, speaking to you in ways language cannot, grounding you, saving you, saying your name, holy, lifting you up, repeated tenderness, voice low, eyes deep, glorious, and she is steel, she is iron, she is endless. [waning gibbous] Moon girl smiling. Moon girl watching. Moon girl brave. Moon girl rough and sweet. Moon girl creating. Moon girl radiating. Moon girl moving, toward you. Moon girl. Moon girl. Moon girl.
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15
Dear diabolic debutante / Spawn of the unfathomable abyss of blackness / Daughter of dreadful dead desire / Black-shrouded sinister sister of celestial gloom before whose imperious gaze the heavens fall silent / Whip-lash girl-child of the graves whose pallid visage kindles the myriad infernal fires / Autocratic vampiress of lunar doom whose winding-cloth enfolds the thousand horrors of blood-drenched nightmare / Thou that wanderest the cypress-crested hills of funereal necropolises / Whose icy glance cracks the ungraven tombstones of utter desolation / Empress of night and madness / Who stalks the locked and shadowed hallways of unhallowed thought / Whose burial-boat glides the still waters over Lethe’s silent depths to the unglimpsed isle of eternal mourning / Whose parapets tower above the fiefdoms of quotidian banality / Whose flying buttresses overlook the Stygian waters of the forgotten drowned denizens of damnation / Whose unshackled dungeons open to worlds of regal splendor / Whose spires pierce dark skies where oblivion buries the ruined cities of revelry under the drifting clouds of leaden time / Oh maiden of melancholic alchemy whose petrified passions transmute base metal into pure gold… May the gibbous moon of equinox shine its baleful eye upon you; may you tread in sacramental calm the winding starlit paths of somnolent cemeteries; may my unmixed metaphors unveil in delirium their parabolic mysteries before the smoldering altar of your uninterpretable allegory; may the favor of your scorn forever lay me out, embalmed, undead, on the cold stone of merciless reality. Behold: in cryptic script of spectral apparition, in tracery of coded illumination, amidst the dawning rays of torment I write thine unknown name on the threshold of daylight. And from within the mortared wall of self I speak forth from my sepulcher the Sibylline utterance, unsought, unheard, undreamt: JUST WANTED TO SAY ‘HI’ !
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Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
Ω Gothic Postcard Ω
Dear diabolic debutante / Spawn of the unfathomable abyss of blackness / Daughter of dreadful dead desire / Black-shrouded sinister sister of celestial gloom before whose imperious gaze the heavens fall silent / Whip-lash girl-child of the graves whose pallid visage kindles the myriad infernal fires / Autocratic vampiress of lunar doom whose winding-cloth enfolds the thousand horrors of blood-drenched nightmare / Thou that wanderest the cypress-crested hills of funereal necropolises / Whose icy glance cracks the ungraven tombstones of utter desolation / Empress of night and madness / Who stalks the locked and shadowed hallways of unhallowed thought / Whose burial-boat glides the still waters over Lethe’s silent depths to the unglimpsed isle of eternal mourning / Whose parapets tower above the fiefdoms of quotidian banality / Whose flying buttresses overlook the Stygian waters of the forgotten drowned denizens of damnation / Whose unshackled dungeons open to worlds of regal splendor / Whose spires pierce dark skies where oblivion buries the ruined cities of revelry under the drifting clouds of leaden time / Oh maiden of melancholic alchemy whose petrified passions transmute base metal into pure gold… May the gibbous moon of equinox shine its baleful eye upon you; may you tread in sacramental calm the winding starlit paths of somnolent cemeteries; may my unmixed metaphors unveil in delirium their parabolic mysteries before the smoldering altar of your uninterpretable allegory; may the favor of your scorn forever lay me out, embalmed, undead, on the cold stone of merciless reality. Behold: in cryptic script of spectral apparition, in tracery of coded illumination, amidst the dawning rays of torment I write thine unknown name on the threshold of daylight. And from within the mortared wall of self I speak forth from my sepulcher the Sibylline utterance, unsought, unheard, undreamt: JUST WANTED TO SAY ‘HI’ !
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5
Of serene eyes that follow gently the illicit pill she could not let go it was heavy as the waters pulling her inside serenading her with an estranged voice coming from within — her minimizing the desire to let it out as the sun quiets down and the gibbous moon exhibiting itself at night, resisting the waves occurring — as if it loathed her whole being of her justness and the absence of these causes her grieving and the sirens waltzing, talking through an absentminded eye eyeing her soul finding love that seizes it but hers were two feet and one mouth to breathe in even in all shades of blue, she can get a glimpse of the dark hue illuminating the downside of the ocean pulling her, wrecking her soul. Redemption does not lie — humoring her with plainly just truth craving for the applause of the moon only observing the depth of the ocean eating the once alive soul of her saving her last breath, chiming in with the conversation, she once had with him. It could have been nice the resistance he once had — to throw himself out to the beauty of his light that shed her whole body he once was able to have and he stayed there, eyed her the whole time being eaten on the lonesome of the night for he himself, shading all the blueness like a requiem for the dreams she kept on having like a composition giving life to new generations, he was still on a token and a curse, and he let her be — in all shades of blue.
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Jul 11, 2022
Jul 11, 2022 at 5:21 AM UTC
In All Shades of Blue
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, sunset west moon flies east? ;] air planes soar beyond the limits they roar in a longing stare they long disappearing through the clouds and gone arise arose arisen and in my place still frozen wizen they venture the winds purple skied time to blend and wing the moon menaces racing in line glistening afar from the back of a wounded scar archer to the future claiming a bleach where does it go? where does it reach? maybe Saturn not here but the return is there to the node of the belong flying up no fear seems my flight gonna wait for years the waxing gibbous flies and I hope for dreams in the close of eyes ------ravenfeels
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Jun 23, 2021
Jun 23, 2021 at 12:05 PM UTC
Waxing Gibbous Moon Flies
The villages of Algiers Well, suburbs Really, but villages Is what is said In French And heaven Knows, despite one Hundred thirty years of Colonization Brutalization Deprivation The many Algerians Still Love French. Those Villages team with men At night. At night, the women Wait Indoors Behind doors, away. Waiting. But at night the Men take the streets. At night the men crowd Streets, cut in Front of traffic, clog Cafes, stream Toward the mosque away From the mosque fill stores But mostly Mostly they Squat Sit, or just Hold up walls. They lean. Stare. Talk. They watch cars As they jostle and jolt Watch other men Walking, watch The silence The noise. Watch Stars, the Dark Still buildings The passing cat, the rhythm Of the wind, Watch the gibbous moon and It’s cycle The fullness, the waxing and waning They watch They witness The villages The suburbs The streets They watch The dead.
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Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:28 AM UTC
The Villages of Algiers
Crystallized hair pins gilded in her soft touches Caressing earths ground She sings the earthly creatures gently to sleep with her dream like sound Sensible, sensitive my dear Breathing in the clear dew drops hanging below the gibbous moon. Natures serene dreamer planting their seeds, reaping - but soon one must choose Difficulty arises And despises the force of nature Bends of the crisps wind - if shocks and stirs It blurs her senseless , And shakes her earth. The goddess drinks the goblet of diamond In silk she lays Yet not be mistaken...... Surrounded by serendipity and indulging in life's pleasures The crystals of the golden moon set in her hair Beware she will leave you dreaming in heart ache
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May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 1:47 AM UTC
Taurus
'O godmother, open your mind to me and tell me of your woe!' 'My dread spouse, he is to joust on the morrow's night; Death cannot accompany him, else I shall be left bereft!' 'O godmother, he is no longer a marauder; he shan't greet Death on the verdant hill where he shall joust,' 'My dread spouse, what will he suffer if he were to fail?' 'O godmother, ye of little faith! Your dread spouse shall joust with a fiery spirit,' 'My dread spouse, what would become of me if he survived, only gaiety!' 'O godmother, worry not, for he shall battle under a gibbous waning moon, a good omen surely!' 'My dread spouse, if he shall be pierced by an arrow whilst on his stallion, I shall weep to the moon!' 'O godmother, if his blood is to stain grass browned by heat, he will lay peacefully knowing his courage.'
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Aug 5, 2019
Aug 5, 2019 at 7:25 PM UTC
O Godmother
... new moon "just let me sleep," moon eaten my absence upsets all. Look at me, really look at me, stare up at the belly of a loved sky, watch fingers dipping into bowls of blood holding hope, feeling around for a sliver, of sweet milk, of relief, of anything; new moon whispers on the dead bodies left behind, god sighs--- he knows; "I am not the same" waxing crescent map out my wreckage, my skeleton of poetry; in the spines of books loved by mankind, bury me there in a pages of flowers--- in the altitude of words; read me with a hunger you have never known before, over and over; whenever it seems fit~ like the light of the moon is a cigarette. smoking, he's always smoking now. god takes another drag; he describes to me: *"You could be my bible, you book of blood"* I can't stand smoke... "I have no business in being your  holy snakeskin." first quarter I've been searching for solid ground, solid shadows, a solid compromise; I wanted a little more than ordinary love from him so I asked him where the static began, for me it's below my bottom left rib and found that it was also where the spiders started too. Time, that quiet thing obeys god, only because it waits for no one it loves unzipping the law of alchemy, cause ink flowered in my blood again; I should thank time it was this saving kind of grace; always has been god stroked my hair this time and said quietly: *"You see, the saddest thing is realizing that there's nothing more they can do for you"* waxing gibbous Oh, where's my love? Is it in the fever I call happiness, is it in the sword my mama raised me to be Is it in the way the moon tiptoes closer when he says my name in that beautiful way he does or breaks my name over his teeth like it's just glass apples God doesn't even look at me he doesn't have to; "Do you believe in angels?" the wreckage answers him "not lately" full moon And it begins again I watch as he just looks away and says it's fine it hurts god narrows his eyes but shrugs "Pain had other plans for you." I breathe out raggedly; ***"I guess, if there's no key then I'll just swallow the whole door."*** ...
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Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 9:30 PM UTC
Icarus (Moon Version)
... new moon "just let me sleep," moon eaten my absence upsets all. Look at me, really look at me, stare up at the belly of a loved sky, watch fingers dipping into bowls of blood holding hope, feeling around for a sliver, of sweet milk, of relief, of anything; new moon whispers on the dead bodies left behind, god sighs--- he knows; "I am not the same" waxing crescent map out my wreckage, my skeleton of poetry; in the spines of books loved by mankind, bury me there in a pages of flowers--- in the altitude of words; read me with a hunger you have never known before, over and over; whenever it seems fit~ like the light of the moon is a cigarette. smoking, he's always smoking now. god takes another drag; he describes to me: *"You could be my bible, you book of blood"* I can't stand smoke... "I have no business in being your  holy snakeskin." first quarter I've been searching for solid ground, solid shadows, a solid compromise; I wanted a little more than ordinary love from him so I asked him where the static began, for me it's below my bottom left rib and found that it was also where the spiders started too. Time, that quiet thing obeys god, only because it waits for no one it loves unzipping the law of alchemy, cause ink flowered in my blood again; I should thank time it was this saving kind of grace; always has been god stroked my hair this time and said quietly: *"You see, the saddest thing is realizing that there's nothing more they can do for you"* waxing gibbous Oh, where's my love? Is it in the fever I call happiness, is it in the sword my mama raised me to be Is it in the way the moon tiptoes closer when he says my name in that beautiful way he does or breaks my name over his teeth like it's just glass apples God doesn't even look at me he doesn't have to; "Do you believe in angels?" the wreckage answers him "not lately" full moon And it begins again I watch as he just looks away and says it's fine it hurts god narrows his eyes but shrugs "Pain had other plans for you." I breathe out raggedly; ***"I guess, if there's no key then I'll just swallow the whole door."*** ...
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86
*new moon; i love you’s echo through the room. some may call this the honeymoon phase, but i believed it was so much more. as your arms wrapped around me, i pictures more of our future. waxing crescent; you met my parents and i met yours, we were intertwining our families one by one. We started to fight, which meant our relationship was good, right? first quarter; first three months went by and i just about wanted to cry all the time. you came home late with lipstick on your face. waxing gibbous; why, why, why, why, why? i cannot do this with you. full moon; i am so angry, so so angry. i screamed and scream, all you say is “i can explain” explain what? how you killed me. waning gibbous; i gave you an inch, but you took a mile. you will never regain my trust, but i love you. third quarter; i started talking to someone new and they told me to leave you. i wanted to give you one last chance. waxing crescent; i’m leaving soon, i saw you with her, i cannot do this anymore. new moon; i am made new again without the curse of you. i will be me again soon.*
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Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 12:56 PM UTC
moon phases
It was 29° (f) degrees this morning with a waning gibbous (¾) moon. Still, as we started our run, it was dark enough that the world was rendered in black and white. Lisa was a sepia print of herself while Charles was a large, quiet shadow, a dark visual noise pattern. We usually jog from our dorm, down to and along New Haven Harbor and back. Lisa and I love the ocean. The wind was in our faces this morning and there were no sparkling moon refractions in our direction, which made the water musou and colorless. I’ve gotten my outfit down to a science, leggings under shorts, four long sleeve, dry-wicking spandex tops (layering is important), a power-wool-earflap-beanie, thermal neck gaiter and quantum, icebreaker gloves (with touch-screen compatibility) - you gotta dress warmly but be able to shed layers as needed. I listen to audiobooks while we run. Right now I’m on book 5 of the ‘The Expanse’ series. I don’t have time to read anything fun these days, so I listen to science-fiction/fantasy while I workout. I love the new AirPod Pro feature that automatically turns the sound down if anyone talks. I wear a fitbit charge around my right ankle and my Apple watch as well - they both track my run - the fitbit is more accurate but my watch sends my workout stats to my siblings - we’re uhh, sort of competitive. At first, as we came up on the harbor, it was impossible to see the intersection of the two dark oceans - the great terrestrial and the greater galactic - but as we turned for home, there was an atmospheric scatter of blue at the edge of the horizon, heralding the sunrise on our retreating backs. musou = one of the darkest shades of black
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Nov 2, 2023
Nov 2, 2023 at 7:41 PM UTC
along the harbor
It was 29° (f) degrees this morning with a waning gibbous (¾) moon. Still, as we started our run, it was dark enough that the world was rendered in black and white. Lisa was a sepia print of herself while Charles was a large, quiet shadow, a dark visual noise pattern. We usually jog from our dorm, down to and along New Haven Harbor and back. Lisa and I love the ocean. The wind was in our faces this morning and there were no sparkling moon refractions in our direction, which made the water musou and colorless. I’ve gotten my outfit down to a science, leggings under shorts, four long sleeve, dry-wicking spandex tops (layering is important), a power-wool-earflap-beanie, thermal neck gaiter and quantum, icebreaker gloves (with touch-screen compatibility) - you gotta dress warmly but be able to shed layers as needed. I listen to audiobooks while we run. Right now I’m on book 5 of the ‘The Expanse’ series. I don’t have time to read anything fun these days, so I listen to science-fiction/fantasy while I workout. I love the new AirPod Pro feature that automatically turns the sound down if anyone talks. I wear a fitbit charge around my right ankle and my Apple watch as well - they both track my run - the fitbit is more accurate but my watch sends my workout stats to my siblings - we’re uhh, sort of competitive. At first, as we came up on the harbor, it was impossible to see the intersection of the two dark oceans - the great terrestrial and the greater galactic - but as we turned for home, there was an atmospheric scatter of blue at the edge of the horizon, heralding the sunrise on our retreating backs. musou = one of the darkest shades of black
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7
vain fluff, temporary garbage 954 pieces of trash is too much to pick up let the most dazzling of sunlight and cool shade get along in peace let the blue fat flies settle on the miles of back alleyways full of dumpsters veiled threats from anonymous faces who are apparently experts in poetry let it all rot under a gibbous moon
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Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 3:17 PM UTC
my poetry brings the worst boys to the yard
When left alone at night I look for the pinpoint lights of the stars that appear when clouds aren’t there. There’s a waning gibbous moon shyly peaking from the shadows, with one of its symmetrical sides, what’s the moon got to hide? whispering privately I’ve heard the moon has a darkside, that it’s coin-like and openly two-faced. That’s no idle gossip, it's scientifically based. India just landed on the moons bottom I wonder what, exactly, that got ‘em. It’s funny because the moon is **** making the landing sound rather rude. “India is groping the **** moon’s bottom.” See what I mean? It all sounds rather pervish and obscene - not at all the usual routine - it has the ring of something politically incorrect, but that’s progress, I guess, undressed or dressed.
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Sep 6, 2023
Sep 6, 2023 at 2:26 PM UTC
the naked moon (don’t look)
self-sacrificed suffering this life burns into nothing. abstract obstructions my hands are full, cleaning, moving, legs sore and voice changing tones, laughing is more persistent. don't be nervous: retract all motions blocked by the feeling of it. lack of control, the situation needs to build itself and all you have to do is live it. communication codes: call me esoteric emily, leave me up in trees I'll throw apples down for you to eat. you feel like stones, cement, hard-laced fruit loops, and the morning after, and the year after year after year that will follow. something smooth to rhyme to, you're building fences for me to jump, I'll leave you to mind them. your eyes were my eyes, and it felt natural. something you showed me that took advantage of the bounds that tie and rebound and break, something similar to a run on sentence. sarcastic similes arcane knowledge seeping through my eyelids. now I'm forced by my own self-will to tell you everything. there are more forces than that, I'll learn to respect them in silence rather than saying that I don't believe in them. doesn't mean I'll get on my knees and pray, just means I might want something. seemingly mean from the things that seem to tunnel underneath your garbage, your sinking thoughts combined with circumstantial evidence led me to believe in the beauty I swore was gone. thankfully all suffering passes no sooner than happiness does.
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Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 1:53 AM UTC
gibbous
God I miss him, I miss the days of old. I can taste it. It tasted like a windy summer night. Where the waxing gibbous moon was radiating; Lighting up the cloudless night and then reflecting on the surface of my heart. Where every small movement of he makes – with his lips, hands and fingers caused ripples. They were exaggerated in the best way possible. It tasted like a cold autumn night; Like the golden, sweet and sticky honey; drizzled over warm waffles and a hot cup of rose tea. Where the waxing gibbous moon was glowing; Glowing through my curtains then onto my mirror, casting a reflection on my bed. Where he lies all day, Waiting for me to return from reality – to where I truly belong.   Where we waltzed with stars and I slide down the Milky Way right into his arms. I am a nefelibata.
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May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 10:04 AM UTC
Nefelibata
[NEW] Scientists know more about the                  moon            than the ocean. [WAXING CRESCENT] Light can only dive 200 meters             down into the ocean.  Below it, the “Midnight Zone” glows in the dark.   (By standing in your shadow, I am hoping to become                                       bioluminescent.) [FIRST QUARTER] Life has a tendency to thrive in hostile environments.                                                                            For this reason, Jupiter’s moon,                                                                          Europa, may be able to support                                                                          life within the global ocean of                                                                          liquid water that is hidden                                                                          beneath the ice at its surface. (This is why I am able to bloom in the dark.) [WAXING GIBBOUS] The ocean bows to no one but the moon.  Turn off the lights.  Turn up the stars.  Low tide wants to fold back inside itself and lap against the                              shores of the Sea of Tranquility.   High tide just wants to be noticed. [FULL] But a heated black body sunspot,                 (isolated from the rest                 of the photosphere), still shines brighter than the moon.  Wolves should be howling at the sun instead.
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Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 10:52 PM UTC
Riptidal Waves
[NEW] Scientists know more about the                  moon            than the ocean. [WAXING CRESCENT] Light can only dive 200 meters             down into the ocean.  Below it, the “Midnight Zone” glows in the dark.   (By standing in your shadow, I am hoping to become                                       bioluminescent.) [FIRST QUARTER] Life has a tendency to thrive in hostile environments.                                                                            For this reason, Jupiter’s moon,                                                                          Europa, may be able to support                                                                          life within the global ocean of                                                                          liquid water that is hidden                                                                          beneath the ice at its surface. (This is why I am able to bloom in the dark.) [WAXING GIBBOUS] The ocean bows to no one but the moon.  Turn off the lights.  Turn up the stars.  Low tide wants to fold back inside itself and lap against the                              shores of the Sea of Tranquility.   High tide just wants to be noticed. [FULL] But a heated black body sunspot,                 (isolated from the rest                 of the photosphere), still shines brighter than the moon.  Wolves should be howling at the sun instead.
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31
Foggy breeze through my fingertips when sunburnt days seem coveted in memory. When the columbines came back from the dead. Burnt up cities... The last glimpse of firefly lights grew dim behind me The trees sprouted everywhere like stardust The pillars I once worshipped in incense with amulets became faded ruins... The weathered walls texture were like sequins with no glimmer I escaped again to a place with green lakes and forrests of pines It's quieter up here in the mountains Like a shudder through the window I hear the old house moan all through the day and all through the night The sunlight pierces through the blinds illuminating his face which is already illuminated But you're my bumblebee that insignia- a honey gatherer If you subtract the intimacy out of *** Nothing's left, but hollow mechanical ******* Stealing the rythmn from the music Sturdy as a beam I lay Unable to grasp at anything It's just noise Sweaty day, shivering nights-juxtaposed It's like living on Mercury In decomposition like a basket of rotten lemons Past conversations crush their weight against my open ribs No parent teacher or friend told me how all consuming the sensation would be... Dazed eyes staring through disheveled blinds, I was dropping rose buds off the second floor balcony in the night They hit the scratchy asphalt like a gentle meteor shower Monotonous nights replay the same phases That moon... A face splashing from gibbous to crescent Waning on my malady Always stirring like a steady torch
0
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 2:40 AM UTC
NEON
Foggy breeze through my fingertips when sunburnt days seem coveted in memory. When the columbines came back from the dead. Burnt up cities... The last glimpse of firefly lights grew dim behind me The trees sprouted everywhere like stardust The pillars I once worshipped in incense with amulets became faded ruins... The weathered walls texture were like sequins with no glimmer I escaped again to a place with green lakes and forrests of pines It's quieter up here in the mountains Like a shudder through the window I hear the old house moan all through the day and all through the night The sunlight pierces through the blinds illuminating his face which is already illuminated But you're my bumblebee that insignia- a honey gatherer If you subtract the intimacy out of *** Nothing's left, but hollow mechanical ******* Stealing the rythmn from the music Sturdy as a beam I lay Unable to grasp at anything It's just noise Sweaty day, shivering nights-juxtaposed It's like living on Mercury In decomposition like a basket of rotten lemons Past conversations crush their weight against my open ribs No parent teacher or friend told me how all consuming the sensation would be... Dazed eyes staring through disheveled blinds, I was dropping rose buds off the second floor balcony in the night They hit the scratchy asphalt like a gentle meteor shower Monotonous nights replay the same phases That moon... A face splashing from gibbous to crescent Waning on my malady Always stirring like a steady torch
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56
A growing sickness Flowing through my veins Burning away inside, eating me away As the darkness takes over from within. Lapses in sanity, I find myself lying In cold sweat, falling through the chasm And I know its only a matter of time Before the demon inside has arisen. A manic bloodlust takes over my being I ache for the violence to be set free. In their dead eyes, I see reflections of mine A murderous gleam shining within As my face stretches into a smile that isn’t mine. Every fibre of my being, repulsed by myself Petrified by the beast I have become I cry out in pain and anguish As I feel Him taking over again. Under the light of the gibbous moon I revel in my madness, as her Screams goad me on and take me To the precipice. I stand grinning at Her broken,bloody form in the earth As she whimpers a pathetic plea for mercy. No one knows of my disease; He only Claims my body for himself in the dark Leaving me behind to feel the horror and disgust In the cold, grey sunlight. Every night I struggle inside I fight against my inner devil, pleading For reason and humanity to return To the twisted ******* I have become. He stretches my face into a wide smirk Reminding me of that exquisite, repulsive Scent of flowing gore; He coaxes me, He cajoles, He beckons me to join Him As my will weakens and my body surrenders. And so ends my tale, I have lost myself To the contorted insanity I bred inside. Horrified, repulsed, revolted with my being My death only entices me now Promising relief from my unholy illness. But I know that small comfort is lost on me Eventually, He’ll possess me entirely And in the remorse of this truth I lie And I feel Him return inside, eagerly awaiting my demise No more can I hold out against Him. No more can I wear the mask of Jekyll.
0
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 10:53 PM UTC
Jekyll
A growing sickness Flowing through my veins Burning away inside, eating me away As the darkness takes over from within. Lapses in sanity, I find myself lying In cold sweat, falling through the chasm And I know its only a matter of time Before the demon inside has arisen. A manic bloodlust takes over my being I ache for the violence to be set free. In their dead eyes, I see reflections of mine A murderous gleam shining within As my face stretches into a smile that isn’t mine. Every fibre of my being, repulsed by myself Petrified by the beast I have become I cry out in pain and anguish As I feel Him taking over again. Under the light of the gibbous moon I revel in my madness, as her Screams goad me on and take me To the precipice. I stand grinning at Her broken,bloody form in the earth As she whimpers a pathetic plea for mercy. No one knows of my disease; He only Claims my body for himself in the dark Leaving me behind to feel the horror and disgust In the cold, grey sunlight. Every night I struggle inside I fight against my inner devil, pleading For reason and humanity to return To the twisted ******* I have become. He stretches my face into a wide smirk Reminding me of that exquisite, repulsive Scent of flowing gore; He coaxes me, He cajoles, He beckons me to join Him As my will weakens and my body surrenders. And so ends my tale, I have lost myself To the contorted insanity I bred inside. Horrified, repulsed, revolted with my being My death only entices me now Promising relief from my unholy illness. But I know that small comfort is lost on me Eventually, He’ll possess me entirely And in the remorse of this truth I lie And I feel Him return inside, eagerly awaiting my demise No more can I hold out against Him. No more can I wear the mask of Jekyll.
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47
~~~ a                         bit                           of a                           smile                         on the                   face of           the night                           bright sky or a       candle               getting               brighter             as sweet              winking               stars go by                            *xoxox        xox xo* a half a ghostly gleam         partly covered by             black veil *xoxox           xoxoxoxoxoxox         xoxoxoxox            xoxox*    gibbous moon arises wan and deathly pale *xoxoxoxoxoxo   xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo   xoxoxoxoxoxoxo   xoxoxoxoxoxo xoxoxoxo      xoxox* full as a great gallion is the most important phase! for she looks down upon us with a tender, loving gaze! the lady in the moon a shining beacon be she pulls us and she stills us and beneath her we are FREE
0
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC
phases
write at midnight. edit in the morning. write on a mountain. edit on a beach. write inside a dream. edit & exist in reality. write in a fever pitch as starlight kisses your cheekbones. edit in the cold dawn light without excuses. write loudly with Bjork screaming into the curtains. edit in silence. write as the clouds gather around the gibbous moon. edit as the sun crests the hill & burns away the fog. write inside, cozy under a blanket. edit naked, cold on the front porch. write asking questions. edit demanding answers. write blindfolded with your fingers waltzing across the qwerty. edit bespectacled or with a monocle. write like a mass ****** edit like a suicide. or better yet write like a homicide. edit like a detective. write toward the open sky with your legs outstretched before you. edit facing a clean white wall with your knees against your chest. write because you are innocent. edit because you are guilty. write during a fit of hyperventilation. edit during mammoth exhalation. write with complexity. edit into simplicity. write, as Hemingway did, drunk. edit, not sober, but hungover. see your flaws in the sharp mirror of a headache. write during sloppy explosion. edit during precise implosion. write with your head in the clouds gnawing at the cumulus. edit with your feet firmly planted in the ground. write during violent collision. edit during calm separation. write with a pencil on soggy paper in a hot shower. edit with a red pen sitting in tepid murky bathwater. write among raucous laughter & banging skillets. edit in secret while the kids are asleep. write like a sadomasochist. edit like a psychiatrist. write while running on your tip-toes. edit while lying flat on your back. write in several languages with abandon. edit beside a translator dictionary. write as you are engulfed in fire. edit with an extinguisher. write with careless fluidity. edit without assistance from amphetamine or coffee. write with a full bladder, standing up, jitterbugging, squeezing the tip of your ***** closed--urgently squirm & trickle your ideas onto the porcelain page.
0
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 11:33 AM UTC
on writing (hemingway)
write at midnight. edit in the morning. write on a mountain. edit on a beach. write inside a dream. edit & exist in reality. write in a fever pitch as starlight kisses your cheekbones. edit in the cold dawn light without excuses. write loudly with Bjork screaming into the curtains. edit in silence. write as the clouds gather around the gibbous moon. edit as the sun crests the hill & burns away the fog. write inside, cozy under a blanket. edit naked, cold on the front porch. write asking questions. edit demanding answers. write blindfolded with your fingers waltzing across the qwerty. edit bespectacled or with a monocle. write like a mass ****** edit like a suicide. or better yet write like a homicide. edit like a detective. write toward the open sky with your legs outstretched before you. edit facing a clean white wall with your knees against your chest. write because you are innocent. edit because you are guilty. write during a fit of hyperventilation. edit during mammoth exhalation. write with complexity. edit into simplicity. write, as Hemingway did, drunk. edit, not sober, but hungover. see your flaws in the sharp mirror of a headache. write during sloppy explosion. edit during precise implosion. write with your head in the clouds gnawing at the cumulus. edit with your feet firmly planted in the ground. write during violent collision. edit during calm separation. write with a pencil on soggy paper in a hot shower. edit with a red pen sitting in tepid murky bathwater. write among raucous laughter & banging skillets. edit in secret while the kids are asleep. write like a sadomasochist. edit like a psychiatrist. write while running on your tip-toes. edit while lying flat on your back. write in several languages with abandon. edit beside a translator dictionary. write as you are engulfed in fire. edit with an extinguisher. write with careless fluidity. edit without assistance from amphetamine or coffee. write with a full bladder, standing up, jitterbugging, squeezing the tip of your ***** closed--urgently squirm & trickle your ideas onto the porcelain page.
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54
**Borne on waves of solar wind the void of space he navigates ostracised, sails the sky searching the night with polarised eyes. With beckoning gaze, his look forlorn watching the world float in space off-ground-tigs plays he alone for has no friends to call his own. Muddy puddles and oceans reflect mellow cheese, veined with blue marred complexion, acne faced through scudding clouds, plays peek-a-boo. As old as time, a crescent smile grinning the grin of a Cheshire cat a melon slice, a boomarang thrown into orbit, returns again. Without our friend where would we be the darkest nights through eternity no tide to pull the ocean blue no romance, for me or you. ...   ...   ...**
0
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 12:45 AM UTC
... Under A Gibbous Moon ...