untitled eyes as flat as dirty pennies, wandering fingers a stained mattress you offered me a glass of water and expected my body in return paid $50 for the privilege i wondered when i'd get the chance to do my homework. ~ Ravenari
burn the honey soft of your sticky skin, apricot sweat and ache in the wrist. you undulate, compelled by thick liquid pulse, staccato heart - the mezzo-forte and forte of your gasps, and, I, push for fortissimo hungry and crude cliche; breathing with your breath. goal in sight, a piston in the engine of you, one cog in the heart of you, slick, sore, a spark in the furnace determined to set you alight.
a dim attic light limns a frail girl, hunched over, mocked by winter's chill. hail hammers at frozen soil. inside, her heart ices shut.
things i cannot stop doing: wishing for rain. checking the bureau's radar for rain. emailing. losing my keys. writing and reading fanfiction. slurping the dregs of a drink just once because it's rude and i'm a slight rebel (and a detective's daughter). taking my meds everyday. therapy. breaking the 'ing' rule in poetry. trying to get better while slipping backards, and lurching towards the horizon while trying to stand still. flashbacking. fangirling. fighting demons and wishing they were actual demons and i, an actual superhero. trying to accept myself. trying. trying. trying. until the word loses all meaning. thinking of you, and you, and you, and the cats. wishing for rain.
Because when you’re going to break a poetry rule you might as well reallybreak it.
Also this is the summer that will never fucking end. And hottest April ever. And oh god Perth, WHY.
(It’s not a rule anyway, it’s more like… just really frowned upon. It’s not even frowned upon everywhere! Whatever, the point is a poem every day, right?)
an everyday otherworld we slip musked and muddy into the mundane, our bodies - fleshy and soft - appear as containers but they are not. you may accept or reject us, we will press wet noses or beaks or whiskers (and more) into the palms of hands, or we snuffle on, untouched. we wild things persist, with our claws and wings and fire, but we do not wait. we fall back into shadow enveloped in the feral, eyes a noctilucent gleam and promise. we embrace the land, dirt, bones and other wild things.
reductive a bird once reduced me to lines and colours with the limited spectrum of their sight. no mantis shrimp capacity to see the whole. a bird once sang a pretty song and couldn't have got it more wrong.
slipstreams i ran hungry fingers through rabbit fur hair, mapped the 14 freckles on your left arm, named them Icarus as i flew too close to the sun kissing each one. i pressed fingernails into the space between the fragile bumps of your bowed spine and marked half-moon crescents as you waxed full. i tasted your love of citrus in each of your pores, bitter cologne hid the truth of you until i licked you clean. gifts of salt sweat made me an ocean of open want. i turned into your lips and- -the bus slowed, huffed a weary sigh. i got off, sounded almost the same. later, in class, i will find you amongst red starbursts behind closed eyelids.
body & soul i have junkyard flesh. everything rotted and rusted, thrown away and picked through, splits of dried rubber, refuse of gristle and chyme. i have a loyal junkyard dog. not enough bones, not enough sinew, marrow on the bones i throw him. what is faith but staying on a heavy chain, wasting away, waiting at the forgotten gate, patrolling the chain-link fence like this junkyard flesh is some palace and you the Royal Guard?