Encounters of Light

thetargetbird:

Both newborn and ruined, a hurricane day
dissatisfied with the shape of its thoughts,
imagining it’s the same as dissatisfaction
with the shape of itself: a spiral, disoriented
beginning and elusive end, sent off into
hypothetical infinity. Herein lies its greatest
charm — encounters with the edge of air
strewn irreparably and then resting
its head against the seat back
for a long train out of the city.

Yes, it is something also of an image
disappointed with the lack of being
that which it is: the middle child of light
dressing in varying degrees of yellow
and the struggle of orange, sleeping
in a grey weather-dinged couch,
overly careful to consider the requirements
it asks observers to consider.

A million syllables spring into the head:
rain, and a grown man playing in it
(perception is the razor edge nearly an end
itself, but fuck, you just have you “see” it
sun bounce across the park until evening breaks),
thinking about positions positioning
all landscapes cutting the threads of vision
and petting its back into sleep
is the only way to render its eternity without debris:

the natural trying its damnest to be historical,
the historical ill-prepared for its naturalness,
a lighthouse shaking it awake at night
and bird chatter a chorus of a million shaken nights.

Try to move away from memory’s center
without ever touching the same ground;
try to solidify it as a sculpture without
destroying it to find out what it was.

-C.S. Henderson

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This is something I wrote based on A Literation’s poetry theme “An encounter with…” Submissions are open until Nov 20th. SUBMIT SUBMIT SUBMIT!

Weapons of Choice

CotD: I likes this one.

dr-gibberyshrooms-md:

To hell with classic
Bookshelves!

I want to store
my bound pages of
printed letters
in an old vintage
gun cabinet.

Since they are,
my weapons of
choice.

wearyorgasm:

The label on the wedge
of cheese I stole
from the store near where I live
(one of the nicer ones—
with the fromagerie)
says that this Hirtenkase
is
   rustic.

But I don’t know.

I’m eating it with soggy, bargain
frozen pizza (whose label swore
it would be crisp)
and listening to
my roommate’s cat
moaning at the front door.

I’m pretty sure
nothing about
my cheese and I
could, in good conscience,
be deemed remotely
   rustic. 

we are lucky kids

cafeofthedamned:

we are born lucky;
they point a gun to our heads
and pull the trigger. 

then

we spend our whole lives
wishing someone would put some
rounds in the damn gun.

snowcoveredhouses reblogged this from me today (yesterday? sometime recently…), and it’s a piece i’d completely forgotten about. 

it’s one of my favorites. 

we once blew ourselves out an aerosol can
when we felt the grass needed to be greener
on the hills under our feet.

and we once felt the need to write down
every third word we spoke to each other,
and filled notebooks with poems
that never made sense to anyone but us.

and we once were grandparents
to children of children we’d never met or had,
just to speak to the bright minds
left so untainted by the world’s faults. 

and we once plowed the dirt
so we could plant seeds of doubt
that would grow to knowledge in time,
and feed the future into morality.

and we once covered our faces in smoke
and grey and polyethylene platelets 
and hid in the crowds of politicians
and leftists in the spring.

and we once did whatever we wanted
because we knew we could
and we were happy. 

my house has been haunted for years.
the walls creak and the floorboards squeak,
and every once in a while you can hear a whisper,
and it’s always familiar,
and it get’s worse every time.

in that once in a while the stairs drip with fog
that tumbles down in waves to coat the floor,
and as i tip-toe through its calm,
the hushed sounds of the voice of
the one who’s name means Life comes to me
in soft soft songs of love and love,
and i get carried away on the sounds of her voice
until i walk upstairs to the bedroom and find
the one who i’m spending my life with
isn’t the one who whispers to me sweetly.

and the one in bed wonders why i cry at night.

Twin Peaks, San Francisco, 1896

she smelled like spring and rain
and jasmine, light, fresh, perfect,
her mouth always stained red from
black cherries and fingertips tasting like
tobacco from all those cheap cigarettes
she loved so much she’d kill for them.

she kissed like a hurricane and spun like a weathervane
and if you were to get close enough you could hear the
electricity on her skin, even get a small shock as your lips
brushed across her cheek, if you were lucky.
but she never sat still long enough for you to grab her and say,
“Hey, lay down, stay a while.”

and when you finally found the words to say those
perfect little sentences that she needed to hear,
she’s already waving from the window of the train
at the man who made her heart race but wasn’t fast enough
and now is consumed by the steam as she leaves.

and you stand on the platform praying to melt or
get hit by a derailed freighter because otherwise
you’ll just end it yourself in your one-bedroom up town.
but when the train never hits, you smile a weak smile,
pull her favorite cigarettes out of your pocket and light one
to remember you were happy once.

A Small Experiment to Test the Effects of Hopefulness on Heads and Hearts

wearyorgasm:

Some people say
there are no such things
as soulmates and that
only the foolish fall
in love.

Some
people
are
liars,

though,

so I think we should
run some tests. 

spider

pandagolucky:

buried in the great gargle
of the toilet’s throat I wonder
if those trees in the neighbor’s yard
adorned with translucent netted
cones and wire chambers might
be yours?

well…
I like you better homeless
some vagrant wanderer of this world
denied of romance or soul
far easier be you spat out from
the underbelly an abandoned bed
than from an egg cluster. I see
your slender arm last
from that dark chamber. How long
your arms are

how much tighter than I
you might have gripped my life

submitted to me, but reblogged because the notes don’t (shouldn’t) belong to me. well done, mate. keep writing :)

cafeofthedamned:

found the dignity in glass,
eyes torn by silver gods and
crimson tides of shock.

futuristic stock,
useless information passing through
highways and veins at speed.

it’s a new kind of symptom,
vibrating higher in turns of side,
never seen without one eye in.

wrapped around hydrogen machines,
heat and light pouring out like
splitting tacky ons.

genocide and
suicide,
dead matter accumulates.

quarantine the advancement,
feel the wood begin to rot,
capture the turn of dimensions. 

this was just brought back to my attention from September. 

it is a prime example of when i simply throw words together that i enjoy.

i absolutely hate this piece. it’s actually shit about nothing. (most of my writing is, but this especially).