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Name: an innuendo Gender: Female
Interests: the arts in general (music,literature,visual), cooking/baking, traveling, seasides, rolling green hills, rhyming, new vocabulary, and existing Expertise: not existing Occupation: fortress in the woods
Message: message me
Member Since:
9/8/2005
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| she taxes my definition of a woman, so let my lips be a revolution on her breast and a cancer from speaking softly.
I wish for the shuddering of her hair to whisper on my skin and slow like lines of rainflow, for my fingertouches on the curves of her neck to unbutton the secrets of her body.
her laughter twists the ends of my organs in sailor's knots and nestles them between the crests of her sea and I suspend as sea foam curls on me, so she breathes my sink and swim while my breaths ripple winds on her skin.
I come ashore at the bottom of the world where sand grains scratch to bury me, and with her green-glassed mouth she will pry open my aching chest still shaking still in the hills of her ebb and flow.
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| today after I woke up I flounced the covers, listened to the sound of the fabric like an old shirt on a clothesline, blue sky figure and white cloud shadow behind, and felt the warm air underneath stretch past my face in a small breeze. the blanket barely settled on my body, and my body pulled itself up to the blanket, and the sun made spots in my eyes like stars.
that's how I floated. _________________
no, we are not a clock; many of the ways our hands tick together are out of sync and even our vibrations resonate at different lengths while you hover on the white strokes, I on the black strokes, and you chasing me chasing you. _________________
I wrote a short story for my literature humanities class, which I will now excerpt completely out of context:
"Before I felt him awaken his movements were sharp on my skin, the ragged edges of the leaves clinging to me as they were pushed off. A hand around my neck thrusts me towards him, and if he is saying words he must be saying how we are the beautiful beginning, arms and legs undecided as to how to bloom together, bumping too close while hot breath seals my ears and his limbs vining around my body searching for my rain my river my well to water the nation we will grow; even I can hear the thunder expanding from that egg's perforation, the loudness of being emptied into the earth followed by an excruciating, throbbing stillness, like a promise from God Herself." _________________
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| it was botched. I leaned over, that's the only detail. I don't remember what angle, how much I took in, took out. your seeping in trickling out already
I keep thinking of how much I leaned over how far back was my leg how far my arms went around your back
I butcher details I mutilated the attempt so what will I do, if there was anything I could do now
all I can remember the more I remember is maybe I didn't reach you at all; maybe I missed you going down and fell all the way through | | |
| I need. art. the things I see with my eyes become a hangman's noose tightening on the thin air of my throat; waves of your touch on my arms floating on blankness, absences
on need for wood and flecks of permanent colors on my fingers.
the lines will quiet in my corpus callosum and hum agitated on hot sheets.
(still)I'm waiting to shutter through a looking glass.
______________________________
I can't even recognize fonts anymore.
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| -rain -rain on my face, melting into skin -evaporation -happiness being the evaporation of all organs, of all burdens, of all heaviness -milan kundera -poetry on my door -whether or not that is pretentious -paint on my face -llama from lima -love films being false -canada/montreal/cold fingers -interior design -windows -making love -what love would feel like if it were warm risen dough if I kneaded it too much if it would rise if it would be beautiful in crumb in crust -making sure I doubt these things
-thoughts -scatterings, inabilities to stitch them - -overused poetic form/body/lips -how to read faces -the way the stairs up college walk get so slippery
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