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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
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-overused poetic form/body/lips
-how to read faces
-the way the stairs up college walk
get so slippery
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