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to become a writer.parents divorce before you can talk.
write about it
like you don't care.
try to mean it.
go through months
of shitty pity-leaking almost-poems
before you get one
that actually makes someone feel
say that it was all a mistake.
only feel like a writer
when you're insecure.
fall in love
with someone. anyone.
that's it's just for fun. just for being
actually love the hell out of them.
mess it up.
write about it.
smoke 2-5 cigarettes every day,
but with the hopes
of saving your lungs for running
(a metaphor? another rule: never tell)
and drink and drink and drink
until you have the courage
to call up ex boyfriends
or lovers or dead friends
to say that you miss them.
write about that-
like you don't care.
everyone knows that you care.
write about that.
the king fell off his
throne. and a woman
with hair the color
of the moon watched
the blood drain from his
face and onto the marble;
and she picked at the scars
on her palms, turned away
because what was one more
they wrapped his body
in silk and sorrows
and his son watched
with starry eyes as they set
his body on a boat
and sent it to the gods
with flames giving him leverage.
the moon haired girl
stopped tormenting her skin
in the name of a man
who wore a crown.
"long live the queen",
but they don't know
that the queen is dead inside
and stares at the other half
of her bed in dismay
because she watched him sink
into another woman
before he slipped into himself.
show me god.he smells like
late nights and moonshine and stars,
underneath country bridges because
"there are just too many people,
skin rough under my palms,
but we're so cold
and we're each other's fire;
knocking teeth against teeth
limbs against limbs.
if we tried,
we could be some hollywood heartbreak movie;
but i've become weary
is still numb from his own head.
two halves make a whole;
it's too bad
that we're only slivers
of a moon,
because all she'll ever be
is a mess of watercolors
on black canvas;
and i will never apologize
,the thing they forgot to mention
about being a writer
is that we all live the longest
and die the fastest.
we feast on metaphors
with numb fingers and hearts
until we crawl under a half moon to sleep
and just don't wake up,
because everything we are
is arranged in our work
and we start to become
everything we've written about,
slowly but surely.
and now i'm not so sure
if i want to be a poet.
i just know
that i want to be a writer.
jesse owens, the boy who never died.my best friend's name is
after the fastest man in
i think his name has
a sort of ring
"Jesse Owens, the boy
who can race the
and my Jesse Owens,
my lightning boy, he
has eyes like the sidewalk
if you don't know what that
looks like, or what that
feels like, then i
don't know what to tell you.
we used to race home from
buzzing bees behind our
fly away hair, the soles
of his shoes hit the
sidewalk like little
bombs: taptap taptap
if i listen hard
enough, i can always hear
Jesse Owens pounding through the
town. i hear him
in the quiet right before the
sun rises, frayed
shoelaces nipping at
but now he goes shooting straight
past my house, and we
don't run home from
school. see, my
Jesse Owens ran himself right
into a bullet,
which he swallowed better than
the pills his doctor gave
/ we smile at the universe with ashes on our lips. there are boats inside of our veins. the blood is a metaphor and, hell, i can't even begin to write about her.
i could tell any story. if i wanted, i could write a novel about my mother and how beautiful she was a sixteen or i could make a lighthouse a person, but i cannot tell you the color or her eyes. it's that that i don't know it; i just can't tell you. it's not a color, it's a place.
her eyes are like Chicago. there's life and lights and lakes, but there's a sadness, too. even so, it's a happy kind of sad. the kind that gives you hope.
sometimes when i'm high i think that i'm dead, because i get numb. not physically senseless, but just mentally dazed. i forget where i am. i like that. it seems sometimes like i am a place, i am all the street signs and the cracks in the road and badly painted house down the way. see the really faint dot on the map? that's me. scribb
the b side to his heart.one cigarette upturned
in a pack
it hasn't worked.
but that's not to say
that it never will,
because a lot of things will never happen
him living is something that will.
he has always smoked menthols.
i think it's because
he liked the extra burn they give
on the ripe flesh of his tongue.
six steps to fixing youstep one
cry. scream. bang your fists against the walls
that keep you locked inside.
kick your feet in the air. tell your sister she's stupid
and wrong and that you've never loved her.
cry. scream. apologize via him to you.
let your tears catch on your lashes
until you can no longer see anything but your own
demise. taste the bitterness left in
your mouth from your own bitching and rot in it.
break a mug. break two. kick
the pieces around the kitchen floor and cry some more.
break a plate. break a cup. break a bowl.
break a finger because nothing can take away this
sort of pain. you are empty and yet
you are filled with so much anger.
break a razor and paint pictures across your skin.
you are okay, you tell them.
you break three days later and you lie
in bed, unable to move.
start picking up the pieces. clean up the mess
you've made and he's left.
use windex to polish off the dirt and
not with haste.basking underneath a buttermilk sun
i peel the film of flesh
off the bridge of my nose
and marvel at its sly way of undressing me
one coy layer at a time
take out my sunscreen
and walk into the shade.
.you are dead and buried
six feet under yourself,
still feeling the way you did
when you were seventeen
and when you bathe, you still
keep your head under the
water, wrists upturned, red
eyes open, trying to drown yourself
dos.she is sitting in the middle of your
dirty kitchen floor,
leaning against the plastic counter
and fumbling with her
and she's got the window open
because there is no
air-conditioning in your one-story house
(which she thinks is
not even close to heaven, but she
deals with it anyways.)
there's a glass half-full of
whiskey and ice and
it's making a ring of sweat on the
corner of your coffee table
with a broken leg.
and when you slide over to her, knees
you can smell someone's spicy cologne
all over her shoulders,
but you inhale it anyways because
your mother was always a
cheater, too, and your father always
drank up his sorrows.
she's winding stems around stems,
cutting slits into it's flesh,
and she's weaving
dead flowers into a crown she knows
will not fit upon your
i keep my hair like i keep my blue jeans: shortthe beginning
she was all curls falling over shoulders and small hands and slender ankles, but she was also all crooked toes and cheek moles and half-baked smiles. she wore skinny jeans too long and too big on her and she always wore a jacket because she was always cold. and he thought that she was pretty beautiful the first time he saw her in a parade, sitting on top of a dodge truck and waving with both hands so that no one was left out. she was the kind of pretty beautiful that only came around when he said something stupid and she shook her head at him, trying to hide her teeth but failing miserably.
she wore glasses but only when she was doing work or when she had a headache because she thought that her eyes looked too wide in them and all she ever wanted in life was to be people magazine's definition of pretty—which she wasn't (but don't tell her that.) she drank tea on sleepless nights, sitting on her porch and stargazing; she thought that ma
watercolour sky shrinking,
too late, teeth fall; pearls
from a broken string.
Blink and the moon ignites—
but the sheets are still
the higher they stand, the harder they fallhe considers her a stranger.
she could've been a singer or a
dancer or a baker or a star, but she
chose to be a fighter because
lovers always lose (in
the ironic, metaphorical sense.)
she could've been happy, but she didn't
choose that path.
because "it is better to have loved,
but sometimes old washed-out poets
like tennyson are not always right.
love is a hurricane of
sticks and stones that may or may not
break skeletal frames and hearts.
once: he considered her a maybe-
infatuation, because eight-thirteenths
of a heart is not,
i repeat not,
enough to love someone.
twice: he considered her just another
feather in a bird flock,
and strangely, that was okay with her.
but she was a fighter and
he was her magnum opus of sorts.
goddamn, did you see that girl
thrash at the waves
just to hold on to a tiny piece
of a man not strong enough to hold his own?
she was a fighter because
he claimed he was a lover, but in the end
she lost and he was still
eight-thirteenths of a heart"So, what was her name again? Jenny?"
"Ah yes. So we haven't forgotten about Jenny yet, I suppose. You know, this isn't—"
"Jah-nay. Her name is Jahnay. She's twenty-three."
"—Right. I said that."
they were seventeen when they met. it was a long night full of snogging on couches, loud, hair-raising music, and german beer. lots of german beer. he was drunk out of his mind, stumbling up the stairs to take a leak. but so was she, and he found he leaned over the toilet puking up fruity drinks and water (that was supposed to have kept her sober, she laughed later. i tried to drink one margarita and then one bottle of water, but the margaritas just kept calling my name.) they met when they were seventeen, and he held her hair back with sweaty fingers, trying not to vomit himself as her guts communicated with the porcelain.
and he helped her off the floor, flus
fuck, here we go again.the back roads--
a water bottle full of
god knows what,
and it burns a little going down.
that's okay. we all need that,
we touched a windmill.
and we leaned against it,
pointing at radio towers
with cheap cigarettes dangling between our lips
before we kissed,
sober, this time
stars screamed at us.
this is why
you like the country.
i wondered about our smoke
creating the stars
as it drifts out of our lungs
in clouds of post-code envy
(god, we need to get away from here).
that would take a long time.
that's okay. we've got time.
Transformers: We Came in WarTransformers: We Came in War
Setting: Sometime during the Bay films
Characters: Optimus Prime
We came to this planet because ours was gone.
The quest for power consumed our home. The need for domination destroyed us. Still we live, and yet there is a piece in each of us that has been decimated forever. We will never recover what we have lost.
I look down upon this planet, and I wonder why we try.
It is evident by now that we have lost the capacity for peace. War follows in our wake. We came to retrieve the AllSpark, which has long since been lost, and we are still here. All that came of attempting to revive our planet was the relocation of the war from our planet of death to this planet of life. There is so much life on this planet. All of it we have sworn to protect. This is the promise we have made to them. But the promise would not need to have been made if we had never co
dead dog julyI.
the summer heat lays limp in the city’s lap,
breathing long oppressive breaths.
it does not even lift its lolling head
to bark out hoarse indignancy
when a strange man brings the mail.
there might be heavy rain today,
brought by some swollen, murmuring cloud.
the world will whirl and howl,
then settle down,
to die a little more.
o, quickly, love,
press your back against the wall in fear
as the universe spreads her arms and
shuts her eyes
and starts to summon the end of all things.
come with me
to the place of windows full of speechless afternoon
hot windy whispers of half-formed solutions and resolutions,
sweltering sunlit meadows we’ll wander and then forget.
o quickly, love,
let’s to the season of forgetting
and unwind all of our harshest memories
and fill the universe’s mouth
with mute cotton.
i’ll whisper these words to you some evening
with all my exigency in the hand i rest on your arm—
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