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the kind that
that everyone is transient,
and souls are
.i miss the way
flit just-a-crack opened palms
when we thought catching wishes
meant we got to keep them.
we never learned that
scar and past eighteen
our whole lives
back in the toy box
where you keep that
card you put in the spokes
of the bike you fell off of and gave you that scar
in the first place.
i see firecenter-room; atrium
of the powlesland re-po
two me's, eleven years old
i am braiding eleven's hair,
but she starts unraveling
skin to skin to lesser skin
younger. her lips are cyanknicked,
she wets herself.
i ask her,
do you know what
it feels like
to grow up before you were ready?
sheds herself again,
into a bottle of gasoline.
i pick her up, douse
the house, and light the
co-dependent in my dreams, toolightning, he
fishtails up my spine,
at the slope
of my waist,
"what are you?"
"i am the sky", i tell him,
before he cracks open my ribs
hang,i buried your bones
beneath the bristle, threw your
mother's ashes over my shoulder
and hung myself in the
heavies my feet
slide below my belt loops,
honeycombyou're buzzing fast
queenbee, gnawing on
cadavers with bouquets
jutting off their bones
(an apology from you:
sorry i'm too high to
petals from your
teeth and laughing
i'm sorry you're too
high to care.)
you're gonna go far, kiddesertspitter,
sandman bagged my
face all up,
"kid you are the fucking heat."
can't kill my
i am the desertspitter
drymouth and sweat,
i vanish.a few excessive kilograms
adorn my body,
stubborn in their departure:
like an uninvited guest
too dense to perceive
the subtle hints i leave
on my skin;
not feeling as blessed as i
could have been
if i were
if i am too much
then why do i feel like
i am not enough
for the starved society
that eats away at my insides
& feeds me
empty, palatable lies,
(a fabricated portrayal of reality's demise)
leaving me wishing
that each bittersweet tear i cry
is enough to rid my body,
my healthy home,
of excess salt
all through my eyes;
not realising that the number
beneath my feet
does little to measure
each person who feeds
off of my kindness, my sincerity,
that each time i bleed
in a well fed wish
i'm just another one of society's prey
to what they weigh.
you talk like a travestyoh, mercury boy, you can't
write your way out of this
body or out of this mind;
you can pray like it's high-fashion,
insist you're only burning yourself out
(but tell me - do you feel like a god yet?)
if only for murky mirrors &
silver cicadas caught
in your ribcage, you've
got a knack for decaying
intimate thunder in this microcosmic
corner I have stolen
your alcohol & I am
missing the color
you made the world turn
selenium hand grenadesI.
neon lights and cigarette-flavored
lips together, hands buried in the leather
pockets of these never-lovers, these
cinder block hunters made into
cinders: only frostbite breath and
army jackets to keep them warm.
retaliating right angles are the ones
that angels can't compose; we are the sharp ones,
destined for single atom collisions and never
fitting, never getting quite close
breathing in the years like the clouds
of your breath,
dressed in cocaine ribbons just to shine
like plastic diamonds, damn all this fucking
estuary sand and this brackish
taste; this former age of elocutionary
sins is forever gone -
cars as coffins: the mud will take us in
as family, and drag us out to sea
with vows that mean more
than paper tongues ever will.
one shot of ignorance, pleasesip, swallow, repeat
is the mantra of every college student
facing their inevitable unemployment with
vodka dribbling down their acne scarred chins.
put education first,
we will always be here for you,
and sure enough
the first eighteen years of your life were spent believing
them just like the teen mom on television who
believed that the father would propose.
then you turned 19
and god said,
"let there be student loans"
leaving you shackled to your dorm room floor
by economics textbooks written by a miserable spinster
with a pretentious name in helvetica font.
and if that wasn't bad enough,
you have to pay for them by scrubbing toilets
at the thai bistro across the street
and bagging pregnancy tests for antsy high schoolers
at 2 a.m. in the morning.
you're tired, slightly delirious
and the pungent smell of microwave curry
wafts off your moth-eaten sweater.
every other week you
experience an existential crisis,
wondering why a mass-produced shee
Literature Roadtrip: Day 5
The final day of the Literature Roadtrip is here! I cannot believe it! I am still going through everyone's work from the last feature, that will be done in a couple of days (I'm busier then I thought…). And tomorrow I will be announcing a huge surprise for you all
Six lessons on love. by trembling-kneesand i have tried to make it right. by colbalt-rain. by oaklungsred. by solis-ortusDrink Me [Mad Hatter!England x Reader] by PrussianPersephoneaubade by thesquarerootElectroconvulsive by Taralithacircular by stars-hide-firesNew San Francisco, part 1 by LetterToRaoulPeckbrilliant times. by BluestWavesAshes and Butterflies by Braxton-T-Rutledge
the sin of sacrifice. by crooked-clockworkTime by SpiralingSpontaneityBefore I Can Become a Writer by GeorgiaFernlinguistics of silence 101 by your-methamphetamine
InfinityI’m afraid that you’ll love me like the wind loves daisies,
blowing them over the edge of their precipice overlooking the sea.
I’m afraid you’ll meet me sadly at the bottom and lap the water like a question against my crumpled stem
when the strength of your love has left me numb.
You ask me what I’m afraid of, and I’m afraid that you’re a nebula spanning the vast darkness of space
while I’m just a lonely speck of sand;
too small not to get swept up in your currents and dragged out into the rolling ocean
and lose myself forever beneath your stars.
aubreyYou are a three-day lightning storm
that leaves only plastic bags and stray dogs
flitting through the river runway streets.
You are dark purple and blue cacophonies,
searing-white and shredded muscle tendrils,
and seams bursting from blistering electricity—
I am not afraid of you.
My father has whirling weatherveins too,
but my mother coaxed it to his irises and fingernails;
typhoon boy, you too will find your stormchaser.
She will have a flagpole straight spine and sunshine
clenched in her fists like crumpled dollar bills, and
more importantly, she will make you feel okay.
You deserve okay.
Southern modernizationBlack comedy market economy, banana peel political humour, cards with the cartels, the solution free room service and credit the union. Bolivar twist, ding dong dollar under control, valley of the coin desert with no value. Gangsta paradise, the victims are the people. Big mac and cold conflict interference a part of it all. In little Mexico you’d need a high horse to jump the great border wall that boasts its peak.
Viracocha melts waters unlike those it rose from, making waves of out of metal oceans to overtake the current south, re-steel, re-take, tech-mechs the entire south into neo-Machu Picchu, cyberpunk music moulding, reshaping old society into an new age, iron dynasty, fresh coat for an old, ancient look. The coattails of Quetzalcoatl if he were a modern man pull together the merge of future and long passed past..techno temples and the like.
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