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"wallspace" poems
he was two opposing elements, the coldest warmth i’ve ever felt. he was night mixed with light, flight mixed with fight. his shoulders full of freckles were fields of tiny fires, his hair a molten eruption spilling down my hands. he set off bombs inside me, rendered my forest a mound of smoky soot, reached into me to uproot the undergrowth. he was loud. i was listening. he was bright. i was willing. i would have followed him into the mouths of volcanoes, built temples for him, a hearth to rest his head in, a small wallspace to flicker in, let him **** up my oxygen. I wanted to dig into him like a jack o’ lantern, reach into his pulpy insides and scoop out sadness with the seeds, carve a smile into his flesh, light a candle in his breast, so he could shine, but he was too cold. i kept striking those matches til my fingers burnt, and every time the flame touched his delicate wick, we’d both go out.
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Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 10:15 PM UTC
laura-blum
Elemental
he was two opposing elements, the coldest warmth i’ve ever felt. he was night mixed with light, flight mixed with fight. his shoulders full of freckles were fields of tiny fires, his hair a molten eruption spilling down my hands. he set off bombs inside me, rendered my forest a mound of smoky soot, reached into me to uproot the undergrowth. he was loud. i was listening. he was bright. i was willing. i would have followed him into the mouths of volcanoes, built temples for him, a hearth to rest his head in, a small wallspace to flicker in, let him **** up my oxygen. I wanted to dig into him like a jack o’ lantern, reach into his pulpy insides and scoop out sadness with the seeds, carve a smile into his flesh, light a candle in his breast, so he could shine, but he was too cold. i kept striking those matches til my fingers burnt, and every time the flame touched his delicate wick, we’d both go out.
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When the shower curtains are made of silk and bleach detergent is in your milk, there are subtle signals of your malady played to the notes under this melody. This house is a frozen Frigidaire. Remnants kept Cold. Bare. Simple thoughts of the sandman’s nightmares. The monsters escape from beneath the stairs. They're afraid of freezing, afraid of Death. Though you stand there breathing yet can't feel your breath. And you're there in the hallway. And you're there in the breezeway. And you're on the white balcony playing dead. You're in between the wallspace. And you're in the creaks of the staircase. And you're on the ivory keys playing this song in my head. The car in the driveway is 50-years-old. The tires are roots. The seat belts are mold. There's no gas in the fuel tank, the steering wheel's gone. You sit as the driver, your blinker's stuck on. I found your name in the library news. It vaguely explained what had happened to you. For most of your life you were silver spooned Wealthy And rich. Yet, simultaneously Cold. And bare. Slowly sipping musical arsenic Unhappy Dead.
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May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 1:44 PM UTC
patty-baier
Spectre
When the shower curtains are made of silk and bleach detergent is in your milk, there are subtle signals of your malady played to the notes under this melody. This house is a frozen Frigidaire. Remnants kept Cold. Bare. Simple thoughts of the sandman’s nightmares. The monsters escape from beneath the stairs. They're afraid of freezing, afraid of Death. Though you stand there breathing yet can't feel your breath. And you're there in the hallway. And you're there in the breezeway. And you're on the white balcony playing dead. You're in between the wallspace. And you're in the creaks of the staircase. And you're on the ivory keys playing this song in my head. The car in the driveway is 50-years-old. The tires are roots. The seat belts are mold. There's no gas in the fuel tank, the steering wheel's gone. You sit as the driver, your blinker's stuck on. I found your name in the library news. It vaguely explained what had happened to you. For most of your life you were silver spooned Wealthy And rich. Yet, simultaneously Cold. And bare. Slowly sipping musical arsenic Unhappy Dead.
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