i.
they call it aphasia when your words escape you, but through it all your humor remains. you are not frail but light as a feather and i will the wind to let you stay. ii. though the slope of your sharp mouth softens to the side your smile remains steady. i bet it tastes of salt, or sugar, whichever you will have. iii. you are bone marrow and flesh, sinew and kidneys, the sum of the whole and still all its parts. oh, how you devastate me, how you make me totality. iv. if you stare at a spot long enough, it begins to move. i was staring at the ceiling when they called to tell me you had died. suddenly stipple became constellations and i saw you dancing among the stars. i pray you've found peace. the whole world went crazy
because the “Negroes” were coming down the street devouring light from want of bread, of pride, of dignity, of our liberation. this is our audacity-- to learn to pronounce freedom, for the brittle body to rearrange itself, with all the power, against all hope. (credit for lines used listed below) The Evening Primrose blooms only at night.
She unfolds dusky yellow petals in an embrace and, if you ask, She will tell you the moon has been lonely; busy peeling her craters open for a taste of warmth from the sun. Her moans have become melancholic-- "How solitary my existence, with only the babbling brook and hooting owl for company. Oh! What a wretched existence is this!" She turns her face from that which adores her. She is drowning in self-pity, teeter-tottering about her axis as if she is the only body in this universe. and what shall i do with my leftovers?
these crumbs attract naught be mice, roaches and men—all the same, just as well. if given the chance i am sure i could grow to stomach you instead. for Julia
she is too busy flirting with the mundane to take notice of you, and yet you would have her anyway. sweet siren, do you hear the honey making a home in your throat? she is powerless to resist. take her in your arms and teach her of her womanhood. you are warm and delicious and whole; let her taste what she is made of. touch her gently and remind her that her world is not so small that it cannot be rocked. if your rage be fire, burn
all this shit to the ground. be an arsonist, sulfurous in your fury. when they tell you that furor is futile, tell them that yours was the back all their motherfucking glory was built on and you will be damned if all this tinder goes to waste. after Abel Meeropol
Will the flesh too burn black after the skin has been removed? Will plasma curdle and teeth flake and lungs bubble and cells burst? Everything has been baptized by inferno yet the trees do not die and their produce does not expire; it's as if they've been planted by streams of ichor. Their gardeners refuse to labor in vain. How is it that even after the fruit has been plucked (or knee revoved or gun reholstered or fists loosened) that there are still those who do not see the fire despite all this smoke? he says
he likes taking care of me. i have blood red mouth, sun stained teeth, i am always hungry for more. "well then. eat." |
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