March 2012
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I hovered like a moth about mouth-treasures tinted the color of jade and marmalade: post-saccharine.
Would I then surrender these, (my sweet children!), conceived in the slurring waters of moribund moons waiting to be unshimmered, to your wayward hands?
February 2012
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I planted upon shadowed jaw unruly jardins full of late bloomers, piquing burst buds of floral powders dancing in clouds. Yet I click my tongue against my teeth at the sorrowed sight of how they, in parades, do wither now.
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I’ve wanted, over the course of these past few surreal weeks, to stop for a moment. To stop and be extremely grateful for the incredible gifts I’ve been given. To stop and just be truly joyful for a moment.
I think about how this past summer was one of the hardest to bear mentally and emotionally, and in so many ways, 2012 is already redeeming that experience and making all the more...
Anonymous asked: I just thought I'd let you know that out of the 70 some people I follow, many of whom are poets, you by far are my favorite. Your way with words is clearly refined and practiced. I often find myself resisting the urge to reblog your poems based off the simple fact that I would reblog them all if I could. Please do not stop writing. Sincerely, a fan.
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How these fingers do trespass in between the scalloped layers of petty souvenirs from a mouth left ajar and lips hollowed out by the departure of old love with his bags. The garret remains unoccupied, bulleted full of puncta choked with dust: indexical traces of faded horrors caught in the staleness of the whirring air conditioner.
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“Art is always self-parading, I think. Always was, always will be. Is there...”
– Paul Thek
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I’ve befriended old yawns: the sighs that slip between chapped lips, betraying the otherwise silent plea of olive oil limbs slipping and ceiling eyes exhausted shut. The night gestates with lunacy, and the cat’s eye she wields peers through my breathy skin, as I lay blanketed yet bare to she who palms the sprinkled sands.
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The quickening of my blood struggles, as I feel the remnant particles of you, my once and future king, pause among the pulses to review your retinue of our love-made sighs. My bower of sheets teems with you in manifold fallings: over me, spilling.
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I swallow one-by-one hanging crystals to suspend the corruscation at the gravel back of my throat, so that when I paper plane to you my arias, they will become your hanging mobile of constellation notes, star-bright, that might kiss your brow before you are handed to the sleepless night.
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Crammed into my mouth is a souring loaf of words, and I begin to taste the fermentation of the syllables, which, like waterlogged ships, sink into half-utterances. I fail then as a speaking creature to forge castles out of articulation, but instead do so with the shifting components of air that match the trills of an old voice wedded away to long-lost octaves.
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Defenestrations: For Travis. →
jayarrarr:
Graffiti on imaginative walls You write because with words you are obsessed Your verses flow to heed the muses’ calls As by Athena’s hand you have been blessed With beauty and a love that resonates Through ev’ry broken line and metaphor You dance with gods and tempt the ancient fates To leave your…
So sweet. Thank you, Jen! <3
Turned 22 on 2/22/2012. :]
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He would so brutally savor with his sharpened gaze my eating banquets off of the very roughness of his hands. I would pick the coarseness from the gaps in my teeth, leaving them raw red like field poppies that will soon become my memory’s opiates.
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I shuffled around digits in my pockets: a means of grappling with paltry sums. Here am I, penny-pinching the glances you’d throw at me not for the buzz of some static cling, but the way in which you thieved away his face to rob me so crushingly of my line of sight.
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Have you dared to climb the fibs that have become fibers, those netted bycaught contractions and parentheticals, that wriggle in death gasps when exposed to the truthfulness of air? Ornate webs, though resilient, do knot, and I ask of you to consider what you cannibalize even if you can so freely navigate the glues of your lattice: sticky with lies.
Anonymous asked: I like your poetry, your wit, and how your view of the world is so completely different than my own. I'm glad to get the chance to read our work, and I hope you continue to create for years to come :)
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I chanced upon the reverie of your eyes gouging chasms into the cinereal leaf of my obituary, where I, and my exposed bones, were laid to no rest but the filthy foray of prints from thumb and forefinger. You scanned and skimmed, read and re-read, yet all that was somehow lost in a bitter mis-translation was found in a smudged paragraph.
casualtypapers asked: where do you see yourself in 10 years? :)
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I balled myself beside you like a still-life fading and hummed to the same thrumming frequency of your heated form composed of perfect pitch: canzonas flushed red as primroses.
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I’d loosen my shirt and tie, as if to set the dull weight of my side-sling down with the fullest intention of unwriting us both, separating pen and paper from an unruly marriage of blotted lines.
The snakes of ink would slurp their blackened ways back to their source, (where I once took a nib to pulsing tributaries) and we would then be twain again.
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He rifled cutpurse quick through his kiss-memory for just how to impress me like fingerprints left on exposed tea cakes.
powergracebeautypassion asked: describe a writing ritual you have...
Anonymous asked: what are you cooking?
raggedandecstatic asked: If you had a blank wall in a city space to yourself, what would you put on it?
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His wandering magnolia fingers take the stage again on rising chest. I loft him up on hushed point, so that his petals do cut the electric air with pressing bravura.
Anonymous asked: What does it take to get into graduate school and major in English? You are majoring in English, right? I'm a high school student wondering about my future, and good jobs in the 'English department' just doesn't seem as practical as say, being an engineer or something. What do I have to do to get accepted into a good school?
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hurricanesinhereyes asked: Termoil.
Anonymous asked: what would the last line of your last letter be?
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She harbored the polemic in the recesses of her mouth, rotting there like fallen fruit, and with her filled molars, she ruminated until the bitterness exploded into caprice: bursting from lip corners.
Tradition.
Every Valentine’s Day: a ménage-a-trois with Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being and a mug steaming with bergamot and earl grey.
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Cement anguishes under stiletto stabbings, as her coat deflects gazes and rain-sheets like an aegis snarling for and against the resilience of the sun in its intermittent skirmishes with the grey.
Anonymous asked: Living is the longest thing anyone will ever do
Anonymous asked: I have a really awful tendency for falling in love with people who don't know how to love me. There is a science to it that no one has learned yet
Anonymous asked: What's the difference between love unrequited and love unallowed? And how in the swirling of the cosmos are we to determine the difference between such frightful similarities?
Anonymous asked: what's good, kid? you smoke bud?
Anonymous asked: I fell in love with an Irishman.
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Romanced by the hottest of showers, I followed the crooked paths of the steam back to onsen days where I would meld with you in the sulfurous waters until our skins laughed with false aging. I remember chasing you to the slippery cliffs just above the falls, and we’d brave together what was the surrendering of our minds to the paragraphs of water forcing the breaths right out of us. Of...
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He poured into my mouth bouquets of madeira, which I reckoned he used to dress the chicken for a hurried dinner with candles left unlit.
I felt then of forced flesh, of the way he used his knife to make a grammar out of me.
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Half of a scone acts as morphine after the delirium. Yet now the crumbs of quick bread are copulating with the morsels of my dreamworld. Without missing a beat, I clamber for my finer china, despite these quivering hands that jingle the teacup on its saucer. I drink. I drink. But I quench no thirst.
A true madhatter’s tea party, I say to myself. I’m caught dead with my head still on,...
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Adhered to chapsticked lips are the prickly fossils of thistle kisses burnt away for our sweet hashish that hangs in the air like the smoking notes migrating from the fallen record player.
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Sighs need leashing, (a fruitless noose about their vaporous necks) for they cannot but wander in search of invitations scratched by the wily hands of silence that elongate chest cavities full of a deserted air. Arid as it might be, they say it is better to breathe fire with the ignited trappings of smoke than to recycle air.
greenrhapsody asked: In addition to what the anon said; my english teacher told us that once she had six months that she was allowed to just write, no working or worrying about money, nothing, and she wrote approximately three hundred poems and came away with four that were worth any thing. any art is worth that commitment and struggle if it is truly what you love and what you are meant to do. chin up.
Anonymous asked: You don't have to apologize for going through a rough spot in your work. Not everything is going to be brilliant and beautiful and exactly what you want. I mean, I only like about a quarter of the poems I write. First and foremost, write for yourself. Never apologize for your poems. Just keep going :) you're great.
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I, starving of reflexes, sit idly as the porcelain mug kisses the cold of the floor. For a moment, I mourn the loss of this vessel, which held more than tannins and tea leaves. It drank of wasted tears and the gritty salts of my discontents. But most arresting is my blindness now of stories outside of my own. Pervasive solipsism frightens me like the onset of disease because of all the lives I...
Sorry.
An anon left a message that he/she unfollowed because he/she felt my work was a little “washed up.” I suppose it has lost its energy a bit. Working on it. I promise.
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Delany marveled at the undulating mass of naked male bodies, and I think to myself how selfish I am for wanting more than to simply be seen. To be seen through, to be invested upon, to be penetrated into for my formless recesses by fantastic projections like fingers combing through the frills of my form. The restless gaze that sashays from collarbone to jawline is that which keeps these...
poetrespasser asked: I am hoping that another Great Depression will be culturally reinvigorating somehow.