[x]

pink filmcut

dust
gold
ambrosia
a naked infinity
cut

the corona
of the soul
explicitly
nude
phallic
raging and bemoaned
a bound leatherette
cut

the pure untamed wilderness of her
she's the
entrance
the
passage
a
night
comer
coming
cut

blood like wine
skin like cocaine
smooth
yes
i love you
cut

it drips
and whirls
and toils
and splashes
and look-
she's
undyingly
cut
cut

i made her
bleed
roses
i embellished her
with thorns
cut

cut
down
cut

rust
splintered floors
dust
this is
open heart
surgery
cut

what
happended
cut

the melancholy
of her laughter
makes me
curl up
and wrings my organs
and
an

RegenesisI am wavering

between stick-thin
and fuck-it 125.

I am on the border
of a future in statistics,
facing north of a lifetime
in psychosis, and

I tell you, I'm getting better.

My days
are no longer measured in fake sugar
packets, eyes brimming with
caffeine and spite.

No, now I am
laundry baskets and
accordion files, my
ribs lined up neatly in place. you cannot
call me a skeleton now.

I am wavering

between two blurred out lines,
and I think

this is called love.

impactborn from blood and dirt
and sometimes, we can brave a soul
but sometimes, we drink too much
or sleep too much
and fill ourselves with emptiness
the bone/marrow/heartbeat
is too much weight
can’t hear myself think over the
pulse pulse pulsing

and we search
we search
for words
memories
spilling our minds like grains of sand
scrutinizing each granule
before the tide washes them out to sea
and the fish and the sirens and the water
didn’t want us
they couldn’t stand our lightness
our buoyancy
our empty minds and no souls
but the sea is full
and we only want to go home
so we fall
and fall and fallandfalland—

she w

Children, Culture, and The Idea of EcstasyHow does one explain death to a child?
We are, but then we are not.
Does the purpose lie in our lungs,
or does it inhale our dying heat;
we are consumed by the blue tones of the ocean
and rather than under the dirt
the loss lives in our hearts,
pumping warm blood throughout cold veins
and we wish for things to be different,
but they aren't and we aren't,
instead we live in a culture that revels in sadness
and we worry who has it the worst
when no one has it the best,
we all live and breathe and die
and no one has ever thought to have told us
that we are not the sun;
we are gravity's children and we have no control,
though

I missed your voice, once upon a time.Echoes perched on vulture's wings, glazed beaks
mirror milky bones, and the west wind,

whistling, traveled through bleeding valleys.
Your head was resting on a royal

spear, your tongue no longer spoke. Once, if
I can remember, it tied for me

clever knots of pretty words: a quilt.
(I kept it on my silken breast, you

know, later buried in my ribs.) I want
to spin a robe for you as well: as

new as newborn dawn. One day it will
grow a beard, and knock on your empty

skull. The echo will silence her loud
screams, and shall arise from vulture's wings.

She will hold a needle to her throat,
and she will make pretty quilts for me.

Insomnia and Body PartsThere were
Timeless moments spent between us,
In those instants and hours before dawn;

That time when we traversed
So far away from this
Wretched house and into
The most delicious darkness
Of Andromeda-

That time before our tidal waves
Came crashing down on us again.

I would do anything to
Drown with you.

The softness of the flesh
Between your knuckles, the
Exquisite map of
Leigh-lines
On your palms;

They were like a lullaby
To my sleepy fingertips.

You used
The breath of your mouth
To teach me to close my eyes
And fall asleep.

Your contented whispers and
Observations of the sky
Showed me then how to dream.

I had no id

SeashineSacred skin
where heavens and ocean
collide,

an imprint on salted lungs
an echo

of aching, of
a moonlit yearning upon the
rolling tide.

Admit ItI’ve seen us
Together.
Not “together” like two people
walking down the street
at the same time;
“together” like
two people
sharing the same breath
after sharing a kiss.

I’ve imagined what a future
would be like
if it were you and I.
We’re the types
that could keep the fire
going long after
the coals had been
burned up and become ash.

I could pick your brain
for ages, dates, and historical facts…
I don’t think I could ever get tired of you.

You don’t have to,
It would be nice you did, though…

Haven’t you ever thought the same,
even for a second?

Lightning Bug CosmosI lace my skin up like a corset, peel back the blinds on my eyelids, and take a step forward, waking from the poppies to the
lightning bug glow of truth tapping on my eardrums.

In front of the mirror I stand, but what I notice is not the awkward crook of my nose or butterfly lashes. I look into the lighted mirror as if searching for answers hidden under
Ribbon-like sets of

the four faces of the year.i.winter was shy,
never had much to say
and stumbled over dirt
because she only knew
how to walk in snow.

she wrote in cursive
but spoke in chimes
and her cheeks were
forever the color of
a weathered cabernet.

she only loved once
and when she did,
she lost her heart.

you see,
the boy used her
in the night
and left her in the day
and she was content.

she resolved that
beautiful people
deserved more love
than herself
and were therefore entitled
to take love from those
who were less worthy.

(she loved a boy
who would never love her back.)

ii.his name was spring
and his voice dripped nectar
into the ears of virgin

StillHe was waking or he was falling asleep, neither, both at once. This was a dream. This was the only thing he had ever known. It made no difference, he trailed his own body like ripples after a rock, smoothing and breaking and smoothing again.

His feet moved tirelessly, without thought. No longer human, only the Walk was real. For minutes, or for months; time was fluid and distant. Walk.

He broke and a low mountain pulled him forward. Smoothed. Broke into flatlands, into shallow water. Into the evening, into the weak dawn.

Smoothed, back into the soft yellow lights behind his eyes. Walk.

****

He was not alone. This thought came from his bo

Family Skeletons~Family Skeletons
~
When she was younger she used to trust.
Her bare feet would dance through the blades of grace,
Toes skimming over dust and rock as she pushed herself higher.
She met a man once.
She was seven and he was aged.
He spoke with such kind words,
And she would remember much later of the venom hiding behind the pleasantness.
She left the swing sets that night changed.
‘Let’s play a game’ he offered her.
‘Never tell, ever’ he demanded of her.

So she grew up.
She spiraled and twirled in a world of hunger and pain.
To be pretty was to be strong,
And to be tiny was the hide from the wrongness.

Loneliness - A Soliloquy It’s gone eleven,
Too late to go out
And nobody’s called.
I watch the second
Hand on the clock slice
Wafers of my time
To add, layer on layer,
To the palimpsest
Of my existence,
Each one still leaving
Faint traces of grief,
Joy, regret, success,
Gratitude and hope.
Inerasable
Impressions of life.

Your BonesSaltpan white,
Grained with innocence that runs in years
Like the tree rings we counted as children.

“Your bones are beautiful,” she murmurs to the pale jigsaw.

They hold no regret.
They hold no memories –
Except of falling off roofs
And the places we should not have been.

There is a softness that underlies cold rigidity:
A boy who spoke without smiling,
A God who remained unseen.
Quiet skeletons lie down serenely while the rest of us washes away,
Awaiting some change in the weather.

The clavicle curves aside,
Cresting like an ocean wave,
A ripple,
A tsunami;
The sternum shielded your soul.

She used to love pressing her

Counting SheepTelepathy is a sin -
Just like staying home on Sundays
And going to church -
Wearing the wrong shade of grey

-because priests-
can change every man's life,
-willing, or not-
will only get you into trouble,

-think only in sins-
and do not forgive trespassers
-to be dragged to nothing-
and a crossroad has no map,

-but, sins are for believers.
with reckless zeal and conviction, gun in mouth.
-no, damnation in hell, is not fair.
so, why not make the journey meaningful?

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SoggyHe never saw it coming. Like good things in life claim to, it came to the boy waiting, waiting for the school bus to come, waiting for his mom and new sister to come home, waiting to graduate, waiting to grow up—waiting. It would be said about him that he was the boy who could wait forever as long as he knew what he was waiting for. But he never saw it coming.
His bowl sat on the steps, the grains inside growing soggier by the minute. He hated soggy cereal. Around the bowl, spots of milk were soaking into the hardwood panels.
The school bus had been early that morning. It was parked, not in its usual spot across the road from his house, but a ways down the road. Its flashing lights were overpowered and ignored by the ear-splitting siren calls. Neighbors milled about, moving their lips instead of their feet—or their eyes. They never stopped staring. With each passing moment, the crowd grew.
A broken man sat on the curb across the road from the school bus with his face in his

What is it...?Is it "empty" if you were never filled with anything
before you became
filled with nothing?
Is it still "alone" if you were never
a part of something
that existed
in the absence of
the only person
who ever showed up?
Is it still "life"
if you don't feel
alive,
and continually
die on the inside?

Untitled.I feel like I’m becoming more “me” than I used to be—
Before, I was afraid of “me”,
So I would just say
“I don’t know who I am” –
Or maybe I really didn’t know…
And this is my journey to self-discovery?
Maybe I’m just putting together pieces of people
I know I like…
Whatever it is that I’m doing…

I think I like who it’s allowing me to become.

BulletproofI’d like to think that I am
Bulletproof.
But the truth is,
I’m simply a glass
Half shattered
For different reasons altogether.

The Season Before The SnowBillowing
through the curtains, the wind tried to whisper to her. Secrets she
needed to hear, secrets that scared her. She turned her head away, and
the whispers feel on deaf ears. Vengeance - the chilling fingers
grasped her skin, to the bone she shivered. Fear creeping in through
every pore, stealing her bravado, steeling her blood.
She turned back to see the spirits mocking her false courage, enticing her with
the secrets she longed to fear. Amber spells at their fingertips and
shriveled curses at their command - theirs was the season of curses,
the season of death.
Before this, before tonight she was someone else.
Never had the thought crossed her mind that this season could be
anything but pain. But everything changed the night she saw him. In the
cluster of fall spirits - everything changed the moment she began to
listen. She had never given any thought to the season before the
snow...

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Submitted: October 22, 2012
Submitted with: Sta.sh Writer

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[x]

Rent me a room in your left ventricle...

by ~GeminiPsyche, Oct 22, 2012, 9:09:34 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

What good is a heart if one does not

Utilize its chambers

And vaults

And valves

And hallways,

To hold stories,

To hide secrets,

To invite friends in

When they have nowhere else to go ...?

What good is the human brain

If one does not

Exercise its muscle

By solving problems,

By fixing hearts that have become to full

With secrets,

Or have been empty for too long?

What good is the human body

If one does not

Stretch its arms around another,

Help another up when they have fallen,

Sit with those who cannot yet stand?

What good am I

If I don't

Take your pain away

When it becomes too much for you to handle?

If I don't

Help you to see the reflection

That shows the real you?

What good are we,

Any of us,

And what good is a brain

And a heart

If nothing is meant to be shared?

Rent me a room in your left ventricle...by ~GeminiPsyche

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

I recently posted this on Tumblr and in my Burrst account.... and since I haven't posted anything here in a little while, I just threw it up here too.

I'll write something new soon... I think...

~cerealnovels Dec 22, 2012

This is lovely. I especially appreciate the first verse.

~JamrocKid Oct 25, 2012 Professional General Artist

I love this

~GeminiPsyche Oct 29, 2012 Student Writer

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Rent me a room in your left ventricle...

Rent me a room in your left ventricle...by ~GeminiPsyche

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