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when you wish you had-n't-stringing your eyes with garlands of stars i
wish to impeach you, maybe impregnate you
with a will to breathe
but what are you but an incoming breath
to me? an unapologetic zephyr gracing
my inner vineyards
ruffling the leaves with whispers
(i understand it
isn't so collapsible, and
i'm forgetting i forget
but when the winds turn
you're a harlot, ruining this year's
yield of self
(importance and confidence)
and i'm understandably drinking
the vinegar left
trying to breathe in the lights
i gift you with - always
and i have only the stars
the stars to blame.
ma-doggive me a piper, judas
i'll give you a coin and you
can tear a page
out of me
your children, nestled
warm inside your paranoia,
smile with the fervour
(i do not meet them
in the present)
what are we but
a flame under
home-boundi catch little insects with my fingers
it makes me feel so powerful
and having become god in your eyes, also -
take your sorrys with me,
shuffle through turnstiles,
take the line closest to the door.
i speak erratic, tongue sore
explaining away this
he said it was "very zen"
to undo, unravel,
of course i cringed.
having had your breath taken
you have the gall
to ask for
imagine my surpriseI c
the is of a
a camera empties itself
as of faces
is your face
lets goRelentless as an ocean eroding
the creases of my cliff face
tidal waves of you
crash along my boundary stones
the push and pull of blue:
emotions white wash
i don't think the ground will keep
beneath me and i'll plunge
the push and pull of you
(are you waiting)
(are you waiting)
(are you waiting for an sos on the sand?)
voice - this would be iti was planning on finding
out about you:
so i could tell
and i didn't
hair-line fracturei am frugal with my wrists
i won't let them see you, enough
now, i'll say, and push them back
into my sleeves, hurriedly
like they could really catch
a cold from your eyes. your
two glaciers of disinterest, kind
of sparked your curiosity
did i? my wrists, they creak
like old willows breaking in
the wind, hunching from the knot
along their side, heavy with
finger branches, soft keratin
leaves you can rip out sometimes
after it rains heavy like
the storm i slept through last
night, and you told me there
was hail, and howling and i
did not believe you until i asked
other people. why is
that? how i don't believe
you say helloof course i am a conversationalist
i slip up on your fingertips and rush
headstrong into devoid-of-care
we shake on it
(the belief that we will
fall) so we take custody
of our fantasies (realised)
before we, exhausted,
everyone verges on lonelinesssome time ago there was a little girl.
she had arms as big as the moon
to push her love toward the earth.
she moved the waves, all across people's faces;
big tidal waves sometimes,
eliminating every scintilla of breath
along the shorelines, up until the mountains,
or, little summer sprays of spit
along your legs as you dangle from the jetty.
this little girl liked to pour her love,
because she did not want to drown in a pool of it.
[ the boy with the fall apart mouth
all jittery to one side
smiling to hide his stumbles ]
In the Beginning...There was no beginning.
Just an endless mass of you.
Like, if I'd slept with a fishing line,
I would have woke to your bite
whether I'd set bait or not.
I'd always wanted someone like you;
with the meaning of life
scattered across their toes
- now you dance at my feet.
And I can see your puddles of blue melting across
my palms as I lather myself with you, watching the way
you dissolve beneath my nails without leaving a stain.
It makes me realise that kissing you is what flying is to fish
and the clouds we avoid are ladders to ground level.
from cancer with love
Feel your cells change, my love
radiate with warmth. Worry not
of eternal devotion, my half-
life is too short. Love
me like there is no future, no
mortgage, no mistress to come
between. Love me without
abandon for I will be the one
a stranger. Placating childrenHer eyes burned into me like the cigarette stains on my cheek in front of my brother's house when I was younger than I can pin-point exactly.
I am sitting on the gutter of that street I overheard you, crying about what you were going to do, how innocent I really was but did not want to admit, how your friend cared, but doesn't anymore.
This street housed me when I had to door knock for a lost ball for a stranger. Placating children, when I wanted you to smile at me, like you were proud, but you were not my mother. Trail yourself back into a taint of blood from seperate shores.
This gutter I nearly tripped over in laughter when I ripped vir
unbrokeni am proud of my wrists
they are not scuffed, nor tilled
they are weak, yes, fighting against
myself to end up in a snow of extended
but they are smooth, and
forgive my senti-mental-ityyour face is shaven these days, not billowing with a wisdom
or hilarity procured from sight; a bookish character.
it speaks up with little flicks of cut down feathers of dove,
your cheeks are chicken skin sometimes, especially
at your neck. your solemn ears
waiting for the music to play on, play on
there is laughter in your eyes when you are
pretending to be serious,
locked away in your... what colours?
i do not know. and i am merciless with
my memory, like my mother with her words.
the way you squeeze every last breath in me
as if to prove i'm alive when i wheeze
life back into my lungs when you
release me. how that pressure le
one of those thingsi write when my head is about to crush into a black hole
i write when my heart is breaking into a million fuck yous
i write when i'm alone, in amongst strangers i feel more connected to than my own mother
i write when i'm confused about how i'm breathing, about how sometimes i don't want to be
i write when i'm in love with photographs, representations, copy-cats, plaster, sticky-tape, temporary fix-its
i write when i'm in desperate need for a vice
i write when i cannot fathom the way every little fibre i do not understand works, when i turn on a light
i write when i scald and scold myself with dirty hot words to try to make myself bett
no brine this timeI sidestepped, and missed the shutter. But it was too late, I had already ruined that timeless piece of memory, replacing say-cheeses with Picasso tremors across disjointed faces. A yell. A hey-you.
Her coat was dark green, and the sleeves fell like limp fish hanging by the sides of a makeshift shopfront by the sea. Her fingers the writhing maggots hidden, just beyond your sight.
I had to touch them.
Every Angel Deserves a Child"I can't feel the unfurling of my wings, Daddy."
I was not her father. I had entered her life when she was two years old, and she called me Daddy since she never knew her real father. Her mother's death two years ago made me the sole, living parent of an eleven-year-old, and I never felt like I was the right person for the job.
"What do you mean, Asrin?"
"Mom always said that when puberty started I would be the swan that emerged from the ugly duckling. She said I would be able to fly gracefully towards my dreams. But, I don't feel it."
As much of a woman as she was becoming, she was still a child. I wanted to answer her question, but I really had a hard time discussing her blossoming womanhood in the middle of a laundromat. Her pretty eyes were pleading with me, but I told her we'd talk later.
Janet had told Asrin a lot of things before she succumbed to the cancer. The last week or so of Janet's life were morphine-induced fantasy, I think.
Janet and I had met during c
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`anmari has been spreading her infectious positivity throughout our community for over 6 years. Throughout this time Ana has been at the core of all things devious, passionately developing an eclectic gallery, helping organise devmeets, participating in chat events and also recently completed dedicating her time as a Community Volunteer. We are absolutely delighted to bestow the Deviousness Award for May 2013 to `anmari, congratulations! Read More