1. (via nevver)

     
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  3. Untitled

    I was asked to behave slightly paralyzed at the sight
    of your thumb when it fell
    off your hand. Afterward I grew like a tree
    from a leaf slightly broken and bitter
    Bitter broken.
    It was all for the vault, not your fault
    but my own when I swung from your lips
    like a bird.
    Do you breathe in the wind when it flings you within
    When it falls into your palm
    Frozen cold?
    Sometimes, late at night I still find
    I remember the taste of your
    limbs, cherry blue. When I wash, all the blood,
    from your arms, leaks into
    Me as I sing to your tune.
    Perhaps I could concur
    all you fear
    as you flow
    the estuary of my mouth wide open
     
    That the dew from your pores
    Open gores and your wounds found nothing
    No home
    but I. 

     

  4. "though it is I who pray I might shake off this skin and be raised from the ground again. I have nothing
    To confess. I don’t know yet that I possess
    a body built for love. When the wind grazes
    its way towards something colder,
    you, too, will be changed. One life abraded
    another, rough cloth, expostulation.
    When I open my mouth, I am like an insect undressing itself.
    Just when I seemed about to learn!
    Where is the thread now? Off again!
    The Old trick! Only I discern-
    Infinite passion, and the pain
    Of finite hearts that yearn."
    — Richie Hoffman
     

  5. "

    Love hunt me down
    I can’t stand to be so dead behind the eyes
    And feed me, spark me up
    A creature in my blood stream chews me up

    So I can feel something.

    "
     

  6. commovente:

    going to the hair salon with appa, seeing his sad face in the mirror. driving through the rain, the first trees shedding to yellow, and my head becoming static and frizz from the world’s rate of decay. a car accident. families huddled under umbrellas with their eyebrows knitted together into…

     
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  8. Cut // Remnants

    I want to know.

    Was that first blade of grass really

    a copper wire extending

    from your tongue

    cutting me beneath my feet on those

    soles

    which trusted and walked on your back on days

    when you had

    outpaced yourself?

    I wanted to think that somehow

    determination comes from within not

    forced upon you like some hazardous rainbow

    melting all your colours into one.

    did you go to war before you fell

    or was it another way around, some

    self protective instinct, insistent

    that I fall through the slats in the ground.

    earthworms welcome me, somehow they have the determination

    you never seemed to possess

    unless

    I enlightened you with these words from

    the sewers of your territory that

    turned your coppery tongue into a

    leaf.

    Perhaps, all a-blossom,

    the chlorophyll in your veins turned to poison upon

    realization

    That you’ll never sway in the wind like the rest.

     

  9. I want to move 
    through your heart

    Like water
    through water. 

     

  10. She couldn’t bear to be forgettable. If you had ever met her, you couldn’t have forgotten her.. Moreover, she never would’ve forgotten you. People and lives collected in her mind like butterflies do in lakeside caves, and when she closed her eyes to rest each night, the stories she’d encountered would twinkle like stars in the dark of her eyelids, glowing forever at a steady pace.

     

  11. Off the Ledge

    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.

     
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  13. 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.

     

  14. burningmuse:

    Lead Staff Note: Excellent.

    gabrielgadfly:

    I have never understood
    why you abandon books.

    You leave them hewn
    half-open, peaked like
    the homestead tents
    of tiny lost settlers

    trying 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 gun

    and I have started
    to notice a trend:
    you put down stories
    as soon as their central
    conflict is revealed

    and this explains
    why you are not here now.

    This poem © Gabriel Gadfly. Published April 10th, 2013.

     

  15. "

    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)