|Literal starving artist. Also a college student. Like what you see? Help me college. |
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03/31I feel your heat in the dark
where your body, beside me
lies in the hollow
our weight has impressed
I see the cells of your skin flake off
and disperse in the air
as you scratch at your skin
in nervous agitation
I fear you are too much like a vision i had
when the heat of a fever
burned me out, left me weaker
than a doll with glass eyes
I know you are too much like the jewels
of my fever dreams
the gems that crusted the domain
of my mind in its passing
I see you flinch when I reach out
for the tangled nest of your hair
you deny that you’re fleeing
so why aren’t you here?
I need to seek refuge
in the warmth of your cheek
I live in the cradle of your spine
(still, you don’t call me weak)
(let me forget that I am
open and soft
let me think I am safe
and possibly loved)
I dwell in and on your retreat
as I revel in the skin
and the framework of bones
that used to be you
I love the existence in the body I feel
Star whispersI eavesdropped on Jupiter once
while tucked safely out of sight
and I hid beneath the rings of Saturn
while my body held the night
tides of endless blackness rolling
through my limbs, and endless tolling
bells were ringing in my head
and space was safer than my bed
I spied on Pisces once, and saw
this constellation thrash and writhe
as her stars became a hunted whale
and its hunter, a man with haunted eyes
I tiptoed past an infant star
heard its pulsing, radiant heart
and watched it sleep in a kaleidoscope bed
born from the ashes of stars long dead
and I slid past serpents asleep in blooms,
crept past gloried kings in darkened rooms,
listened to prayers on a doves fragile wing,
and I carried the vibrations as I heard the earth sing
My cells carried colours, my body became
a vessel for the thrumming and humming of all
the things that were greater than my bones or my name
the things that I search for when the ground starts to fall
out from beneath me, and all my regrets
form the quicksan
Find me a sparki gotta keep moving
because the world’s in motion
us frenzied little things
we have to keep moving
immortal and interred
in my tomb of glass
paper fragile wings will never move again
pinned to boards to keep them safe
but i have to keep moving
as impossible as that seems
everyone’s holding hands in the garden
but without a spark, it means nothing
i wish i knew why
only Judas could sympathize
with the way words are never plain
my apologies collect,
in a swear jar, with the flies.
honey and vinegar, i bait the trap
and always catch what i’d never expect
without a spark, it means nothing
it’s all of nothing without that last
an electric pulse
that sense of something beneath it all.
i’m gonna find it
in the water, cool and refreshing
in the dark, strangely revealing
i’ll find a frequency of purpose
concealed in a spark.
Dead languages and bitter teaWe were directly opposed,
circling each other in a confining pool,
my mouth seeking yours, but only finding
the fragments of composure you left in your wake.
"Nunc scio quid sit Amor",
you said once, and I agreed with you,
then looked up what the hell you meant
as soon as I was alone.
We went stargazing when we were hungry
and fed ourselves with the names
and the glow of all the stars
that spread themselves out to tease us.
"This is what I see in you," you flattered,
pointing at the sky while the wetness of the grass
soaked into our backs.
"You're that string of pearls, right there,
hanging around the neck of the sky.
You are more than what I’ve been looking for,
more than anything I've ever tried to find,"
you painted stars and lies.
I left you job listings in the mornings,
and you told me my fortune,
in the bottom of my teacup.
We were directly opposed; I told you to leave if you wanted,
so on a night too cold for me to see the comfort in your dreams,
you left, gathering
Collectorall the things you collect end up in your eyes,
sparkling and swirling in your wide, unguarded stare.
clutter and trash are your sacred artifacts
as precious to you as a lover’s kiss to me.
you spit at the word “worthless”
because how many people called you the same?
i wish you’d spat on them too.
insect bits, and epithets,
half mended sweaters, fish bones, wishbones,
unopened letters, broken phones
litter the landscape of your life, as you
go searching for evidence, some concrete assurance
that you’re not alone.
you breathe more dust than air,
naively unaware of how rarely your skin feels the sun,
but in spite of loving you, i can’t resent you
for who you’ve become.
people’s things hurt less than people.
you don’t talk to strangers, and you don’t talk to friends
but you’ll talk to peeling portraits, to yard sale art,
to lifeless painted men;
endless conversations held with acrylics and oils
until your vocabulary