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
Author: elizabeth claire
poetry for the desperate and the romantic. university student, bored out of her mind.
poem: James Dean and the Savages
now that he is gone the dreams and the sex and the writing are all pathetic. she was going to change the world with poetry; she had such plans. but he left the room in a red jacket; she is listening to Marina and The Diamonds. In the end, she is the one… Continue reading poem: James Dean and the Savages
poem: “guess what? i’m not a robot”
what we have is not social justice, it is not even justice. i am sitting alone on the ground, there is blood around my legs and you are gate-keeping, putting your hands between my brain and my spine and pulling out the pins, tacking me up like a dead flower, a dead girl, ice cream… Continue reading poem: “guess what? i’m not a robot”
poem: pastel lust
you walked by and i, sitting in jeans and tee-shirt was suddenly a virgin in a field, my legs open over grass my fruit open and falling the daisy heads indented into my thighs, small red faces, matching mine; can you hear the water falling, the girl becoming?
On “Relevance” and Art
“Radical” self-love is just sloth repackaged. There is nothing radical about lazing on a couch, binge-watching television for ten straight hours. If done in moderation, this might be considered “taking a break” — though from what, I couldn’t say, as binge-watching hardly allows for silence and recovery. Consumption of popular media can be both educational… Continue reading On “Relevance” and Art
poem: girl waiting alone for her lover, at dusk
I am watching the trees catch Darkness, the cupped hands, the branches, all shaking; feminity is caught tight in the branches, the men are earth and sea and sky. Night stumbles into the foreground; she is drunk, she watches her enthronement: the earth laid thin, dyed with falling eyes, faded mirth, coughing angels. This… Continue reading poem: girl waiting alone for her lover, at dusk
poem: the downsides of unrequited
i try to read but stare out the window. everything is raw and warm: the sky is touching lips with the snow. i try to read; i ignore the wet slowly spinning between my legs, i shift in the chair and wait for the boy i do not think about thick, ripe peaches falling… Continue reading poem: the downsides of unrequited
poem: the third boy (but i swear it’s different this time)
I did not want to be here (again): thinking only and always of where you could be where you will be where I might go and pretend to study, just to feel your small blaze as you walk through the room. it is childish, probably unhealthy; I might justify obsession in the name of love,… Continue reading poem: the third boy (but i swear it’s different this time)
poem: confessions of a teenage elitist
i like being misunderstood. but i am not that complicated: i think am better than you because i think about grand things in the shower and you only stare and smile, your eyes drained out, your mind running clear and fast and going nowhere. i have various complexes: childhood trauma, childhood poverty, childhood isolation. i… Continue reading poem: confessions of a teenage elitist
poem: small chronicle of living in my head
silent, silent girls play at depression, play at deep aching wounds: as we really saw battles, as if our mothers died and our fathers went mad; as if we were raped on cement floors outside cities, men standing at the door and sharing cigarettes. but, really, these girls are too fantastic and too normal:… Continue reading poem: small chronicle of living in my head
the last pavilion 