Gallery
Literature
(30/30)
i have been asked why to write it all down? isn’t it easier to say it / to hold it inside? if it is worth saying it shouldn’t be written. a poem is not a monologue. a poem is what i’m aspiring to.
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390 deviations
Literature
(30/30)
i have been asked why to write it all down? isn’t it easier to say it / to hold it inside? if it is worth saying it shouldn’t be written. a poem is not a monologue. a poem is what i’m aspiring to.
Featured
390 deviations
napowrimo 2022
15 deviations
Literature
(30/30)
so april was wild and violent, sticky sweet with blood, with blooms - the weather got hot and the eyes of passers by stayed cold. so it was april and it was supposed to be spring. i haven’t tasted that nectar once this whole year. i wrote the poems. i probably won’t write another for another twelve months. this used to be a lifeblood and now i just don’t have the energy. work sleep, work sleep. poetry for the rich and not for the weary. so it’s april and the world is fucking ending. so what. who cares. i have a small heart, and tired eyes; i want to care so badly sometimes it makes a wolf out of me. but even wolves need rest. even the wolf can fall to the bared teeth of springtime and not get up again.
napowrimo 2021.
30 deviations
Literature
twenties.
i am a man in
his mid-fifties and
my son never came
back
from the war
and
my wife sits at home
and weeps and
listens to a soothing
voice while
i find it harder and
harder to find someplace
to drink.
the speakeasies play
something a little rougher
while i hide my
pistol
under my jacket and
hope my wife never takes
the needle off her record
for long enough
to hear my slurred words
and the music i listen to
plucked by
black fingers.
a century in verse.
10 deviations
photography.
1 deviation
Literature
travelling words - scotland
when i came back from scotland,
i had an accent even though i
only spent ten days there.
it has waned but the feeling of her has
not
and when my passion flares so does
the lilt in my words, the
fire in my soul.
when i drove though the winding hills
and the desolate mountains and
we hadn’t gone past a house
in miles, that
is when i felt most at home.
i wept at my eighth great-grandfather’s grave
not because i knew him
or mourned him
but because i could feel
my soul connecting to the land,
right down until i could feel the pull in my
blood.
scotland pulled me into her arms,
told me all about her past,
told me all the men tha
travelling words.
2 deviations
Literature
ode to a battered body.
dear mind,
thank you, for even if
you are tattered and broken,
you are still the only thing
that is still me.
dear feet,
thank you, for even if
you are weak and frail,
you have still held me for
all these years.
dear hands,
thank you, for even if
you are stiff and painful,
you have allowed me to write,
live, and have a voice.
dear tongue,
thank you, for even if
you are tight and traitorous,
you allow me to laugh, sing,
even if it’s only when no one’s looking.
dear ribs,
thank you, for even if
you are warped and strained,
you still protect what keeps
this body living.
dear heart,
thank you, for even if
you are tattered and br
letters to loving myself.
3 deviations
Literature
denial.
if i think hard enough,
i think the sheets
still smell
like spices in bulk
and poorly steeped tea.
and i know this is
only temporary
because you left your shirt
slung over the back
of my chair, and i know
you love the big chestnut tree
and smelling of dirt and
grass stains
and you told me once you thought
my car smelled like home,
though it only smells
like horse
and old cigarettes.
grief.
5 deviations
Literature
i. toska.
i can flick the switch,
but there is no power
in this house
i call a body,
a body i call a house
because it is
not a home.
a home implies that i
lived there once.
i have never felt warm
enough
to live in my body.
untranslatable words, translated.
15 deviations
Literature
aries.
i’ll fuck you straight, girl.
my lover’s lips
are not framed
by bramble bushes.
her hands are
weather-rough
form weathering
the barks of men
sitting on street corners
or bus stops
or on the backs of her
shoulders where she
can’t quite reach them
to swat them to
the pavement.
constellations.
12 deviations
Literature
(1/30) haunt.
sorry
i buried your best
friend in the front yard,
sorry
tulips sprung
from their caving ribs,
sorry
i lived there too.
napowrimo2018
30 deviations
Literature
[i] prologue.
when he asked how long i’d love him i said from here-
unnamed project.
7 deviations
Literature
morning sun, part i.
i.
and from the nothing, ra rose, and he said, i am khepera in the morning, ra at noon, and atum in the evening, and thus the sun awakened.
-
when the chains rattle, khepri can feel it all the way to her bones. long ago she’d lost her sandals, and it’s been more than a hundred steps since the sand stopped burning her feet. the sun is not her friend today, ra punishes her, beating down, filling her head to the brim with heat. there’s blood on her wrists from where the metal rubs, and on her hands from the men she’d killed to get tossed into the desert. she’d made her decision, back in alexandria, with the
morning sun.
3 deviations
napowrimo 2019
30 deviations
Literature
osoyoos.
and the white hot sun -
it becomes me across the
vast unyielding sand.
form poetry.
8 deviations
highschool dysphoria blues.
7 deviations
Literature
poems for a personal apocalypse pt v.
and it wasn’t the distance, i don’t think.
you sent me a few photos and i did my best
to respond but our communication died.
whatever we had in our younger years curled
in on itself like a spider. we barely exchanged
four words and there’s no word for the feeling
that gave me. was i jealous? relieved? could
i even be able to describe what i felt?
for the purpose of this poem i will not try but
all i know is that i didn’t feel bad. i didn’t know
if i should. i’m sure there’s another word in another
language that sums up the emotion that filled me.
i’ll write about it again when i find
poems for a personal apocalypse.
5 deviations
Literature
(1/30) blood typed.
the fact of the matter is
i think i’m lonely.
there’s something violent
about the space you left;
like you took my lungs out,
like you ripped bone and blood
out of me until i was nothing.
there are things i can’t grow back
except for hatred.
so when did you forgeweld
my bones into knives. how did
you get the iron from me?
how did you make it so hard
to keep all this violence inside?
i am not made of steel.
that is something you had to plant.
tell me now the difference
between a surgery
and the autopsy.
it’s whether or not you get bloody.
napowrimo 2020
30 deviations
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