Tags: fifth season

blue

(no subject)



it is the season of skinny girls
like mad tulips, mini 
skirts and stalk 
legs appear and dance 
on the concrete, 
on the tiled floors 
of bars, 
that 3 out of 4
seasons 
are occupied 
by old men. but
it is not their season.
(it is the season
 of skinny girls) 

i sit, curved about 
in this wasteland 
of here and now. 

you ask me 
what it is like 
to be 
recycled, refound
and i cannot 
reply. 

i swith-stop weekly, 
abandoning this vessel 
or cradling it, 
wishing for the grave
or baptism.

i am not one of them. 

[that life is not mine, 
 i have abandoned my 
 stalk legs - 
 i prefer to let 
 my blood crawl and drip 
 sometimes over folds, 
 often under 
 my own bones' light.
 
 i do not dance 
 on concrete, 
 i am a creature of 
 the fifth season 
 for which 
 there is no bloom.] 

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i'm working on this one, feel like it could really go somewhere and am desperate for feedback, the [ ]'ed section is really up for grabs, part of me feels like the poem ends at "i am not one of them" however, i still like those other stanzas - feeeedback please!  

blue

(no subject)

a looking glass under water
pressed to buoyancy
lost ages and found years
the clams quiver with each passing
grain
(a silent cry of pain)
the birth of
unparalleled pearls,
unparalleled reflection,
the scavengers dig their claws deep
to fight a current,
the loss of tide,
a lying moon.


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found this in the back of a legal pad, very messy, possibly a drunk poem. that or a toronto scribbling. all the same that way, haaaaa. its bad, but i think there's some potential to sharpen it up. i mean clams! lying moons! i am an oceanic genius.
blue

a variation on reality

a piece of you departs 
with each parting word
taking more of me 
and i wonder 
if those silent nights
left me with more of 
you, me
who am i left, anymore
than what this
frogstance, leaplining
communication bears? 
reaching across for 
your replacement 
a bottle, a book, 
placing yellow bricks
and donkey head alike
in your empty chair, 
the 5 o'clock shadow 
grows, if not 
around your cheeks 
bearing your toothful 
grin truth, 
then around my 
soft, irredescent
secrets, 
stamped and
waiting for 
your approval. 

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