By the morning, I will have returned
To discover petals and sparkling sand awaiting me,
Florida coasts and spewing engines
Diamond-studded darkling - I hear your song.
We held hands and we swore,
In your name, I beheld my life and my soul.
Windswept balconies and frosted windows
It was all over, then.
I remember the days when you lived in my ribcage.
You would press upon my arteries - my bones - my lungs -
As if you belonged -
There, Somewhere,
Anywhere.
I remember the rain sweltered and shook as we stood,
As we fell, we tried to land
Anywhere or somewhere,
But your only home was between my shoulder bones
And you did admit –
The heart that beat wasn’t yours.
By midnight, I will have climbed and indeed,
Leapt off the rainy ledge with bare feet and
A dry numbing in my ribs.
By evening, I will find you where you’ve fallen
And there, we will be.
-
Off the Ledge
-
(Source: artspotting, via leopoldgursky)
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Stained
I hear, often, the hush as you slip away
Like a glassy fish slides into water, smeared in the grease
That an oil tanker leaked into its skin.
The stains on the wallpaper, they
Dripped like syrup
Stealing secrets from our eyelids when we slept.
Perhaps I’ve wandered quite far,
Swimming through this swamp to reach you
Is an etched, bloodless task.
Perhaps the rhymes in your gills
Glint in the sun as you swim,
As you convulse to wash your stained skin cells.
At last,
Clear air cuts into your lungs.
And then,
I stop leaking, and sink. -
Conflict by Gabriel Gadfly
Lead Staff Note: Excellent.
I have never understood
why you abandon books.You leave them hewn
half-open, peaked like
the homestead tents
of tiny lost settlerstrying to build a life
in strange lands:
carpet, coffee table,
the open wilderness
of the kitchen counter.Sometimes I pick them up,
just to meet the character
you left nursing a beer
and a bloody wound
in a shady Boston bar,the fright-eyed one
hiding under thorn bushes
from goblins and wolves,
the mother with hair
like sunset and her finger
on the trigger of a gunand I have started
to notice a trend:
you put down stories
as soon as their central
conflict is revealedand this explains
why you are not here now.This poem © Gabriel Gadfly. Published April 10th, 2013.
-
I burned one hundred and
four pages of sin in the fireplace.Bound neatly in the slick covers
of my first book of poetry.This is for my
father, who doesn’t know that
the absence of him in my words is more telling
than what I refuse out of love
to remember,whose love was a bruised
peach, rolled gently between my palms,whose hands are growing smaller as I grow
larger.I burn all of those
words. I burn my love. My sorrow. For you. As you
douse my words in gasoline and I turn around so that
you cannot see me crying. Run, so that you
can take the books out one by one from the flames,
saving them from what I have tried to hide, your
fingers turning black along their
corners. Your hands
adopting
fire.To you, who believed in me. You blow the
smoke through the chimney like a signal. And
afterwards,
I touch the soft grey
ash in the fireplace,still in the shape of
the dedication page that I had
forgotten to write,that says, For you,
My Father, who burned
my words alive, just to see if I would risk my flame
for what I believed
in.— “The Anatomy of Being,” Shinji Moon (via commovente) -
-
(Source: shitfilm, via commovente)
-
I believe that today more than ever a book should be sought after even if it has only one great page in it. We must search for fragments, splinters, toenails, anything that has ore in it, anything that is capable of resuscitating the body and the soul.
—(Source: bookporn, via saccharinsyntax)
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(Source: nevver)
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Matt Molloy
Matt Molloy
Matt Molloy
Matt Molloy(via nevver)
-
-
Those Old Images
It is rare to see you swallow your words.rarely do you take moments like apple juice and sunshinefreely.He cocked back his head and laughedFlowers fell like bruised peaches,collecting in the valley of his throat.It wasn’t just a jail cell.Not just a man with a perversityGlaring through bars as young girls pray to the sky and run fortheir delicate lives.Not just.Another kind of poetry; fragmented and undignifiedUnsignified,LIke the poisonous literature in your spinal cord.In the space where it all breaks down,The freaks who run the circusCarry the torch and the men who jail you inFall to swords.Each by each, she would leave her incomplete booksUpturned and half-worn, around the world.Scattered, like the soul that lived in her meek frame.When you swallow your words, I see the heavy disjointsIn your skin cells, and the breath that gushes around your chestThat proves to me that you’re alive. -
Methinks we have hugely mistaken this matter of Life and Death. Methinks that what they call my shadow here on earth is my true substance. Methinks that in looking at things spiritual, we are too much like oysters observing the sun through the water, and thinking that thick water the thinnest of air. Methinks my body is but the lees of my better being. In fact take my body who will, take it I say, it is not me. And therefore three cheers for Nantucket; and come a stove boat and stove body when they will, for stave my soul, Jove himself cannot. (7.7)
— Moby Dick - Herman Melville -
Wrinkles
These days, I can see the old in his eyes. The stray blonde twig- like hair that stands perpendicular to his full, soft head of hair. Almost as if electrocuted, it wires up, reaching for new places.
I see the old places in his skin. His soft, brushed face looks at me delicately, weighing the heaviness of every acre he’s ever walked, of every soul he’s ever carried. I see the old in his chest, as he lightly twinkles during midnight hours amidst wine- induced spirals, he carries me lightly although his heart has been hollowed.
I see the old in him. Gentle eyes smile at me and wrinkle even gentler. Soft lips almost afraid, uncertain, weathered.
I see my old in him. Peaceful hands clasp on frozen days and give warmth to glowing futures.
Silent mornings blur into endless nights and we grow old, together. -
October’s got those orange eyes, but somehow I still lost sight when you lifted off my pumpkin head & kissed me goodnight.
— Broken Horse by Freelance Whales(Source: salamandas)
