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Literature Text
eclipsing silence between wax-worn hands
there is poetry in this,
as we sip the dregs of discontent with cheerful
lips, polishing our heartbreaks to worn-out
powder blue and comparing the stains left
on our fingers;
there is poetry in them, too.
we spent a week in silence watching the walls
erode, spent a month rebuilding them only
to tear them down in a single star-spent night;
there was poetry in that,
i planted an orchard of moth-orchid wings,
you gave me mountain ranges with crooked spines,
we swapped soft for granite and edges for merge
as we sharpened our tongues on each other’s secrets;
there was poetry in them, too.
i told you i loved you without speaking, after
the moon had pirouetted across my bedroom walls
and i lay bathed in incense and rose-dust, you
awash with sunlight in a far-off place, pouring
away turquoise seas as if rescuing a bathtub from
drowning, and i said nothing more than
how the sky that night seemed emptier than usual,
there was poetry in that,
and you said, they have all fallen into the
distance between here and my lips, pressing
a kiss to my kneecaps over the space of two
continents, i said nothing more than
there is poetry here, somewhere, not knowing
where to look.
now, the sun has streaked across all angles
of my face and the seasons have shifted
with sweeping arcs beyond my window and
i can say nothing more than
there was poetry in us,
lines of a song never written down, a tune
without the words, a mouthless serenade of
distance and gravity; moonshine confessions,
iridescent and delicate, left to crumble beneath
our slack fists - feigning anger at the great dinner
plates of the earth below, when it was the
great sea swirling between us that was the tempo
and the rhyme all along,
there was poetry in this, too.
but now the sea has been hung up to dry and the
distance has folded itself like a love letter, a
blank page unsent, on my dressing table, and now
there is another’s eyes slipping liquid over your
empty spaces, she tally marks across your bedsheets
every time you mention my name and calls it
justice and i say nothing more than
there is poetry in this, isn’t there?
cradling silence between melted hands,
rocking it gently enough to hear it sing;
these are the words it spoke, the lyrics
to a love undone.
there is poetry in this,
as we sip the dregs of discontent with cheerful
lips, polishing our heartbreaks to worn-out
powder blue and comparing the stains left
on our fingers;
there is poetry in them, too.
we spent a week in silence watching the walls
erode, spent a month rebuilding them only
to tear them down in a single star-spent night;
there was poetry in that,
i planted an orchard of moth-orchid wings,
you gave me mountain ranges with crooked spines,
we swapped soft for granite and edges for merge
as we sharpened our tongues on each other’s secrets;
there was poetry in them, too.
i told you i loved you without speaking, after
the moon had pirouetted across my bedroom walls
and i lay bathed in incense and rose-dust, you
awash with sunlight in a far-off place, pouring
away turquoise seas as if rescuing a bathtub from
drowning, and i said nothing more than
how the sky that night seemed emptier than usual,
there was poetry in that,
and you said, they have all fallen into the
distance between here and my lips, pressing
a kiss to my kneecaps over the space of two
continents, i said nothing more than
there is poetry here, somewhere, not knowing
where to look.
now, the sun has streaked across all angles
of my face and the seasons have shifted
with sweeping arcs beyond my window and
i can say nothing more than
there was poetry in us,
lines of a song never written down, a tune
without the words, a mouthless serenade of
distance and gravity; moonshine confessions,
iridescent and delicate, left to crumble beneath
our slack fists - feigning anger at the great dinner
plates of the earth below, when it was the
great sea swirling between us that was the tempo
and the rhyme all along,
there was poetry in this, too.
but now the sea has been hung up to dry and the
distance has folded itself like a love letter, a
blank page unsent, on my dressing table, and now
there is another’s eyes slipping liquid over your
empty spaces, she tally marks across your bedsheets
every time you mention my name and calls it
justice and i say nothing more than
there is poetry in this, isn’t there?
cradling silence between melted hands,
rocking it gently enough to hear it sing;
these are the words it spoke, the lyrics
to a love undone.
Literature
Forward
She ran faster with clipped wings.
Literature
malevolence
"it's probably a disgusting paradox."
i confessed,
as wine's sweetest madrigal made my heart shiver
just a little more than usual.
next to me, the girl with mascara trace on eyebags,
smirked
and passed me cigarette to inhale god's perfume
while nose-tapping his collarbone.
"don't."
(you care about my lungcells more than your own?),
"you are not my father"
i confessed,
aware that wine's sweetest madrigal filled your arteries as well.
soon, i was teasing nicotine-fragments
on worn-out black of nailpolish,
as the fire in your lighter made the candle on my grave burn
just a little faster than usual.
Literature
traffic on the overpass under the fingernails
and while alacrity
is still
quite far out of reach,
my hands stretch, spreading out
like skeletal maps, each bone
finding breathing room, each vein
a highway being built
even as the cars continue to drive
(trying to fix a train as it moves down the tracks)
and they disassemble,
they pull themselves apart
at the joints,
to build a floating bridge of
little white hopes,
thin little ribbons
licking the potential
to fly
(but the road is anfractuous,
and they’ll drive forever,
circumnavigating the potholes
and finding their way back
to where they started)
our cognitive maps don’t h
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17/5/17 silence sang of justice, and i said nothing more than truth.
thinking about poetic justice, thinking about him, thinking about me, thinking about how much i missed writing about heartbreak, and i'm back.
Still got some editing to do methinks so let me know if the final stanza fell flat and where or how you'd have ended it. I always appreciate any feedback!
thinking about poetic justice, thinking about him, thinking about me, thinking about how much i missed writing about heartbreak, and i'm back.
Still got some editing to do methinks so let me know if the final stanza fell flat and where or how you'd have ended it. I always appreciate any feedback!
© 2017 - 2024 comatose-comet
Comments22
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i love reading your writings, they always inspire me somehow, i couldnt stop reading it and was immersed in every line <3 i think the poem is perfect