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wanderlust, and what i knowi know things.
i'd like to pretend to the listening frost on car windscreens
that i know these things from the song of birds down my ears.
'a little birdy told me' they say, but what they're forgetting
is that birds, if they could talk, wouldn't waste time telling
humans other peoples's secrets when they could be teaching
me how to grow featherdown and fly. yet here i am, a bird
telling scraps of paper what i do and don't know.
everyone gets a miracleeveryone gets a miracle.
the thing with miracles is that who can tell a
miracle what it is? is it watching the sun bleed
into the horizon holding your lover's sweaty hand,
all cheap perfume and hour-old petrichor like a
twenty-first century version of numinosity, since
it's amazing you even found their heavy-lidded,
flecks-of-gold eyes in the first place? is it near-death
experiences where you're lifeguarded back into the world
by a kind stranger in a surgical mask? or is it nothing
spectacular, at least by those standards, but just
simply waking up in the morning, having the eyes and
lungs and heart to do so, the mouth to speak 'i
am alive and that is pretty awesome in itself'?
but, see, everyone gets a miracle.
a true, unrelenting one, the kind where your heart
swells up to nearly burst out of your body and your eyes
well up and the only word you can speak is 'wow'. maybe
you're twenty-eight or eighteen or forty-two and perched
precariously under fog and mist and shying away from the
Collab: holding starsDid I tell you about that girl?
I should have done, always talking of her
Always on my mind
Jumping on my mind
I have no ways to explain how she makes me feel...
What words in the world could we use to describe
What words could you use to describe how much
you really love somebody?
Maybe a thousand astral cords tied to the tip of
your tongue, and maybe just one spiral galaxy
wrapped around your ankles.
But what is as perfect as a hundred leagues
under the sea, that first gasp of ocean and rock
salt, with years of rainwater rushing through
the gaps between your ribs and the walls of your
Our love growing like the universe, by particle, by stars, by worlds, getting ever wider to line up our perfect future, our world together, her love is my star, the warmth of the sun by her touch, the smile as wonderful as the eclipse but never as rare but still as perfect.
The shooting I saw on its path,
What If We Were Poets?Do you ever wonder what it's like to come face-to-face
with the planets? To curl your fingers in the air without
meeting thousands of plaster ceilings? What if I showed you
how to cross Saturn's rings, inhale the atmosphere of Venus?
You would enter the Earth (and it's a strange place to call home,
really) with ice crystals at the corners of your mouth and ash
clouds stuck to the insides of your fingernails. Let me tell you,
it's a beginner's worry that you'll burn up in the atmosphere,
but I've had helium and hydrogen daubed on the base of my tongue.
Oh, and do you ever brush past the windows on train carriages
and wonder what cornfields are like when they're your sky
and your Earth's crust? What if I took you to the white cliffs
of somewhere or other and taught you how to spread your wings
and not hit the ground? What if I showed you mazes, and became
the red threads around your thumbs? If you'll just trust me, I'll let you
see that getting lost should only worry you in jungles of co
fox firessome say the northern lights are dancing maidens or torches
lit by the honoured dead, or charged particles
colliding with atoms in what could be the most
beautiful lovers' dispute known to man, sun, sea, flora and
fauna. some tongues whisper that a magical fox is sweeping his great
tail across the snow, spraying it up in to the sky.
the fires of a fox could be myth, legend, anything, but even so
if you're wandering around in december and see red foxes scampering
through sleet, wish that they'd sweep it up into the cosmos
and craft you a perfect lovesong.
when the winds are roaring outside and the rains are knocking at my window
i'll think of winters gone and winters to come like any half-sleepy soul at
fourteen minutes past three,
spewing stories from chapped lips in frosty breath, fidgeting uncomfortably in
leather jackets, hair crusty with sky-fallen crystals
or pink-nosed children excitedly breathing out,
fingers to their mouths, pretending they were
exhaling cigarettes and carcinog
Tomorrow is BelievingYesterday I considered myself a dust mote
and climbed out of my window into the helixes
of peoples' ears.
I think I am a monarch butterfly surrounded by
peppered moths here.
They're all a hive of bees and what am I?
Perhaps a bluebottle on the wall.
They are ever-ready to say that there is no tomorrow
'I give up' 'I quit' 'There is just nothing for me
or for anybody anymore.'
They pulled me with their hook fingers and sat me down
and told me that there was once constellations, the clink
of champagne glasses against curved lips and they
once rode in the passenger seat of a car doing a hundred
and twenty down a motorway with the windows open and
the hot summer in their billowing hair.
They tell me that they wished at eleven minutes past
eleven and spent years perfecting recipes to what they call
'the perfect life' only to one day stop believing
when morning came knocking for them.
'Tomorrow I'll be sailing off to a new state
of apathy' I hear a body breathe.
'No, you won't. Tomorrow is m
i write bad poetry.You are made of bone, sinew, gristle, synapse, skin, keratin
not inkwells and Hemingway, galaxy-cuttings and star-trimmings
or dream, Edgar Allen Poe, absinthe, reflections and sin.
You know a hundred words to describe every pockmark that dots
your face and the way your pens fit into arrow-quivers by that
ricketty old desk of yours but
Words will not
from your mother-of-pearl lips
Apply cleverly-done descending letters here
and sprinkle one jaunty hyphen across the page
because after all, punctuation is a hitchhiker
and you're speeding down the word count like a cargo truck
till you crash into an abrupt ending or more likely
a lack of poetic inspiration.
Today and yesterday and seven days before, you might have
prostituted your muses, a penny for your thoughts, looked with
cross-eyes at your empty lined pad of paper and then
wrote seven pages about a cloud you saw that eventually scattered
into dreamy folds and smoke.
The sky is blue.
The sky is big.
Apply 'the sky is
to the sunset leaves sweeping on waves of
exhalations and to the soft sound of mingled
watercolour paints dripping onto rustling paper.
to the tinkle of children dropping pins in the cracks
of frostbitten lips and crevices in bricks built
to keep the winter away from shrinking crabapple trees.
or you'll miss watching the names of strangers be
daubed in wet concrete onto the icy streets and the
knock on your door as you're visited by ghosts in white
sheets and creased eyeholes.
or you'll miss the delicously sugary irony of warming
your hands on liquid nitrogen and setting fire to your
sweatshirt to cool down.
scrape your palms and bruise your shins enough and you
might step out of your skin and leave ribs as wishbones
by your side like you believe in yourself. tie your knuckles
round your clavicle and unfold your spine and if you close them
hard enough you might start to see the fifth of november in
your hazelnut eyes.
did no one ever tell you that you had
In Every Seasoni.
This month, branches are outstretching
timidly, naked, shy of leaves. Autumn
is burning, the rich golds and twigs
snapping underfoot: a funeral pyre for every
late dawn and crisp, woodland scent that ever
trickled like honey down the throat.
when the ice awakens, colours have already
gone to sleep, tired from their all-year curtain call
of full bloom. powder falls, the stars are
shedding their skins, congealing in gentle dustings
on your eyelashes. you blink, and the dream is gone.
if winter is a sigh, spring is a gasp for breath:
rhythmic, unsure, but fully alive, as buds tremble
an ostinato in the breeze. tulips tenderly sing
lullabies to tiny green leaves, peeking with awe
out at a brave new world, straining to listen to
what will become a floral symphony, half dreams
and half oak and acorns.
when summer pulls on a garish shawl strung of
rose petals and water lily scents, the world
laughs, ricochets of mirth up to the atmosphere,
hot breath forming in clouds trailing
Down the rabbit holeShe found some sort of joy
As she jumped from stone to stone
Not caring, but hoping she made it across
They actually thought she didn't notice
The names etched in rock
Or the families crying every day
Grandma, Aunty, Mother
Hopity hop hop
She couldn't let them rest in peace
Her giggles became shallow covering her crazed sorrow
As each family member passed on
And she started the game again
Her world of magic covered some of the madness
But it wasn't enough
To stop her from another challenge
She put on her butterfly wings
Stained with blood from the other tries
Before chasing the white rabbit, of sorts
Then with a final jump
She fell down the rabbit hole
To join her family in another world
Now how far could you go
Over the rabbit hole
Before you too fall?
Company Of OneIt's so nice
to wake up
alone in your bed
not having to
tell someone you love them
when you don't.
There's only your alarm clock
and the yawn of cars
to greet you.
StandardsAccording to the world I'm not a girl. I don't fit the tendencies a girl should have. I've never heard of this rule book before, but I suppose a lot of people have. I mean, there must be certain standards a girl should have that I am expected to live up to.
According to the world girls my age should wear their hair long, girls should gossip, girls should be neat and like shopping and giggling. Girls should talk about boys all the time, and what they did on the weekend. Looking pretty should always be a girls main concern, never mind things like sports or running around, that's what boys do.
According to the world girls my age shouldn't be angry, girls shouldn't swear or curse or, god-forbid get dirty. Girls should never be aggressive towards others, they can never be rowdy or reckless or untidy.
I am a girl but I am like a boy. According to the world that is not right, their stereotypes make me an outcast.
Maybe, just ma
Baby's lullabyall of the children went to their beds,
a soft starry light guarding their heads;
hush now baby, don't you weep,
silence is just music put to sleep.
we linger in places we're not supposed toI'd like to get underneath your skin the way you got under mine and
leave a whisper inside of your head that gets louder the longer you're
quiet. I wish I could leave a puddle, nestled in the valleys of your
chest cavity, that you feel when you breathe, and you choke on a little
bit each time you add to it yourself.
I want to be the alcohol on your lips, so I could slip down your throat
and nestle on the edge of your collarbone.
I'd listen to the irregular hum of your heartbeat and maybe knit
patterns from your veins. I've watched you drink the burning liquid,
and I've seen your face wince
at the sting as its forced down into your body.
it leaves your veins tangled and its a pattern I don't know how to unwind.
sometimes when I'm home alone I try to get you out,
I get into the shower and wash you off of me. your sweat and
semen and saliva slowly crawling down my legs to circle away between my feet.
but even when I scrub my skin until it's red I can still feel you
when I get into bed alo
wishbones and flowers I think it’s selfish
how I have compared
every other kiss
( After all-
good things don’t
invite themselves into the lives
of little girls who categorize
their disorders by the scars
on their wrists and who
allow strangers to hang them
from their necks like wishbones. )
But, no one’s hands
have ever staked claim
to this scavenged wasteland
not even my own.
And it’s hard to forget that;
please forgive me.
As you will always
be the one who taught me
that it’s okay to be sad.
I won't allow you to allow me to let you go.Darling, you fell asleep so close to me and woke up so very far away.
I cannot let you go because of the euphoria in my veins when we are skin to skin
but sometimes I trace the blue outlines of mine and quietly long for the times
when they were still filled with the apathy and meaningless adventure of our
Love, I'm sorry for the wordless tears in your eyes that I don't understand, and
I'm so sorry that I can't let you go even though you asked me to,
and I'm so sorry that I love you, but I really, really do,
and most of all I am so very sorry that you
say you're sorry every time
I tell you.
Living a Lie.Living a Lie.
You say things you don't mean when you're angry.
You call me a waste of space and that you can't stand me.
When the dust settles you say you don't mean it.
You say I should know better than to believe it.
As usual I foolishly upkeep your illusive hold on me.
I allow you to mute my thoughts and take control of me.
You promise and reassure me that it will never happen again.
That this is the last time and you will put it all to an end.
But I know promises only comfort fools,
Who readily allow others to pull the wool
Over our eyes because it is easier to swallow the lies.
Can it be a mistake if it happens more than twice?
Despite my preaching I can never take my own advice.
I've realised that this aggression is a part of you
And because I can never dare to part from you.
I have to believe the love you have for me is true.
Sometimes you have to take a lie not for what it is
But for the truth and reality it suspends.
Withdraw your vengeful tongue and revert it into a kiss.
Miss TakeShe's the one who persuades your inner child to hide behind the big-girl you. She can't be "friends" with someone who is immature.
She's the one who discourages your other friends from talking to you, because she doesn't think they're good enough for you.
She's the one who makes you cry, and not from laughing too hard.
She's the one who spills all your secrets; she knows enough to write a book.
She's the one who does what you do, and tries to do it better.
She's the jealous one who tells you your boyfriend is cheating on you.
(She's the one who helps him cheat.)
She's the one holding the knife protruding from your spine. She's the one who never gives back what you gave. She's the one who hates everything about you.
She's the one mistake you wish you hadn't made.
for holden caulfieldwhen i was sixteen years old
holden's words were echoed to me, ironically
in a voice not his own. phoney, he'd call it,
but as my literature teacher would say 'reading aloud'
but too softly
too kindly for the room, nineteen of us
all with bored, hooded eyes -
and wouldn't he just hate us?
the boy awkwardly ruffling his hair and turning to
his reflection in shiny glass, smoothing more strands
and the girl whispering and the one next to
her pretending to listen, smacking gum
and me, tracing words with my pupils
doodling stars and clouds on scrap paper
'what do you think of holden?'
'he's weird', 'he's right, i guess?'
but i pity caulfield.
and if i could travel back in time and
scoop up all of holden's baby teeth and
tie them in a little necklace and wrap them around
his neck, i would, and if i could tell
holden caulfield that childhood and cigarettes
are the same: both end.
but it is up to you what you do afterwards
and if you choose to grind it in the ground, do so,
and if you choose t
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