it is hard to consider the human condition without considering ourselves overmuch; she has constellations tattoed on her neck but she is finite, a small person never living. we pretend man has galaxies inside his eyelids, that he is endless, but even the poets are stained, their pretended infinity only an echo chamber for the… Continue reading poem: the humanists are narcissists
Author: elizabeth claire
poetry for the desperate and the romantic. university student, bored out of her mind.
poem: la femme n’est pas l’art
the persephone concepts, pt. 2 all hail the romantics: Persephone left the city and walked into her womb. all hail the romantics: she found him in a graveyard cleaning stones with his tongue she is too much spring, she is lonely. Death is kind to the Female, to the lost, to the waiting and the… Continue reading poem: la femme n’est pas l’art
poem: la femme n’est pas politique
the persephone concepts, pt. 1 Persephone voted for a fascist; they killed her in the street. later, it came out that the fascist was a woman. they resurrected Persephone, gave her a medal, ripped open her vagina and sold her blood in jars.
poem: the stars turned off, for dramatic romantic effect
I imagine he needs me as much as I need him: I am not idealizing a personality, I am just making a desperate boy who lays awake and would rather have me curled into his side than to have another night spent alone, crying when the color drips, crying when he steps inside his mind… Continue reading poem: the stars turned off, for dramatic romantic effect
poem: “inside the outsider (on my own again)”
my ambitions are small things, held and taken like pills. I am unstable, crashing like clockwork; I tell people it is for the art, but I spend Monday nights alone: the cats throwing their faces at the well and laughinglaughing at the way the skulls smear. I have plans I had plans There are cities… Continue reading poem: “inside the outsider (on my own again)”
poem: apology to readers and followers, Feb. 2020
I am sorry that I cannot write conventional things: you would prefer anecdotes about depression and things that are easy to read, where a word is a word is a word. I am sorry that I prefer nonsense; that my poetry is so abstract as to be ineligible that what I think is art… Continue reading poem: apology to readers and followers, Feb. 2020
poem: night terrors for dead girls
she is split open once too often; they dip into her for communion bread, for vampire wine-tastings. she is fresco, oil on canvas, chalk, watercolor: there is something addicting about virgins, about the girls with universe side-splits and the cosmos falling out of their brains onto the dirty dirty ground. you are the monsters, catching… Continue reading poem: night terrors for dead girls
poem: love or lust? saint or whore?
the moths on the backs of my hands will not answer me; they sit mute and flutter at the traffic. once again, I've made the wrong decision: whose idea was it, to come here and wait for him, to run a waterfull over the chairs and tables to let him see the desperation, the dark-blood… Continue reading poem: love or lust? saint or whore?
poem: crush
you were not supposed to do this to me. this is not fair, this is not what I wanted. please get out of my mind and stay brilliant somewhere else. Don't you understand? Everywhere you are and I am, there is so much in the air, I cannot breathe: Color still chokes. soft death is… Continue reading poem: crush
poem: summer fruit in the city
so is this what it takes? we are not meant to speak of the inner life, the girls falling like apples; it should all be chaste: small stories of people kissing in stations and camps, her glory fluttering under your hands, her becoming all raw and red. you thought you were a god because she… Continue reading poem: summer fruit in the city
the last pavilion 