girls in long coats came for coffee but dropped dead after remembering that coffee comes in plastic cups and with plastic breasts, plastic mouths, and plastic sex lives; they could not handle the combination. they were, however, very unique people: they breathed air everyday, read books sometimes and read instagram all the time, and wanted… Continue reading poem: i am not like the others who are not like me
Tag: orginal writing
poem: too long for her twitter bio
art inspires art; like fire makes fire and sex makes humans making love making sex, dipping their hands in red and painting cities. I met you when I was a conquerer, I met you and you tore me apart. I was making grand endless forests and populating them with leopards and crying when I was… Continue reading poem: too long for her twitter bio
poem: we were the world, at war
hello to the dead years hello to the girls in yellow hats, kissing the library windows and pretending they are kissing husbands. hello to the young dead men in trenches, pulsing with no heat, maggots curling around skullcaps and helmets and dead dreams. hello to the girls standing at the train platform, waiting for him… Continue reading poem: we were the world, at war
poem: Let Them Eat Cake
I am Elizabeth the first, sitting in dirty bathwater with rotting teeth, rubbing my hands between my legs because there are no men: I am tired of being Virgin Queen. I am Bloody Mary, I am wailing in the antechamber, the rosary beads dancing like knocked-off heads after the ax cuts—one, two, three. Despite what… Continue reading poem: Let Them Eat Cake
poem: not another night alone
these times of year are desperate, are lonely they are spider traps i can't talk myself out of, when it is midnight and the depression is so repressed that pulling it out is de-evolution, fundamentally re-volting to this grand new person i (almost) am. where are the stars at 2 p.m.? i suppose chopin could… Continue reading poem: not another night alone
poem: those people are like art, dead but beautiful
little girl, in the red skirt, in the impressionist painting outside my window: the sky is thick with cocoa beans, the clouds are wild. her mother picks at the flower-dust in her hair. they have halos, they are goddesses spun out in starry nights, relics from when the world was young and girls waited… Continue reading poem: those people are like art, dead but beautiful
poem: what is a woman?
when we were talking, he treated me entirely different from last year, he looked in my eyes and said, "i believe--and i'm sure you do too--", already giving me credit for having the right opinions, the right ideologies; this un-pretty girl who can talk of post-modernism, intersectionality and all the necessary college-activist ideals. but i… Continue reading poem: what is a woman?
poem: i saw the texts in your phone
darling, have you heard of the invisible men? they are all around us, dancing. they are the pricks in your cough when you kiss me, when you tug down my short chemise and kiss my thighs. they are the children we can't have, the dreams scheduled and forgotten, the sense of otherness I always feel… Continue reading poem: i saw the texts in your phone
poem: river flows in you (three steps for love)
i wrote a manual last november: how to fall in love, three easy steps. first, be a ghost, be silent and secret: your lips so dusty that even coughing cracks a new breath. then wait for a boy to uncork into greying Fall days, his eyes splashing wine, his voice nervous and young; while you,… Continue reading poem: river flows in you (three steps for love)
poem: you can publish, but you must use a pseudonym
they call me no-name, little ghost and spirited what-if that runs and dances among the has-beens and will-be's. i have deep holes where my eyes should be, i have a pulsing sticky heart where my mouth should be: I cannot talk, but I can bleed. I can not even claim what is mine as… Continue reading poem: you can publish, but you must use a pseudonym
the last pavilion 