fool's gold in your teeth and cemetary hips;
i needed to drop these poems off :| (well, poems in flash-fiction form, sketches, that is). they might be wordvomit or wordpoison tho, im still not sure. by title theyre On Leaving, Summer Sketch, and The Dead-End Road. i cant remember why i wrote Summer Sketch tho, it seems to just be an aesthetic piece.
☆On leaving
I hated to live as I was living then, blindly tearing through the jungle of your heat after you'd left the room, in the passing confusion of your cloying scent. How could I live like that? Of course I had to go, either to keep from going under, or else to keep my pride from drowning; things are always gray. Living in your shadow once you'd turned to stone on me; it turned into a quiet war that few people attended. If you felt I was a foreigner, that was it, that was where I cut it short. And weary, I left; most things never truly see the light of day.
Why is it that a person feels bad if they kill a thing of beauty? Does something deserve to live for its beauty? Although I tried to run- although I tried to escape to the highlands and lose myself in my ideals- the jungle scent pursued me like a bad memory, and as I grew closer to the shadow I was gathered closer to you. And so, exhausted by hatred and judgement that never came to the good it was spost to, I fell to a numb kinda love that I made entirely alone, and that powdered remedy cursed my bones until it finally eroded them away.
☆SUMMER SKETCH
He sighed for daylight but could honestly only find refuge in the night; walking dark roads, shelter of a twiceshunned alley beast. He felt like his brain had been drinking or like his senses had been stripped of all decency; he was drained, and- his consciousness collapsing into sugar- heavy calumny nothingness- could not consistently recognize the things around him or call them by familiar names, he could only feel em.
The thunderstorm that surrounded him was luxurious with its subtropical heat; slow winding, under hypnosis. The rain fell slow, paw-soft, whispered tender little things that dodged up from under, soft arcs breathing on his skin. A flash of lightning would harm the silence and then thunder would come, not a sound but a vibration of distant roaring shaking through the concrete to his bones, frightening a fugitive heart. Sapped, that was it, drained; the chaos of humidity moved naked- swept like a wind- in the caves of his empty hands...the light was low and lit with tones of purple. The scent of summer soil rose from the earth heavy and thick, undertoned by tiny electric stars: sparks in the air, spark dim in the distance, the rain quickened but still fell soft and left enough room for a solemn man to move. His mouth tasted like nothing but water; should he duck down to the cartoon lights on the avenue struck humb ahead?
The cypress trees were just palm trees in disguise and he sped up his gait as thunder's tongue was like a stone warning: the late night lights were a dream and his hand swept backwards to clear the phantom from his brow- he was chilled to find his forehead thick and cold with dormant sweat...
☆the dead-end road
In that darkness flickering in the land of light like liquid- in repose- your skin looks cold as though in a museum but it confuses my armies because it's warmed by love, but even armies wouldn't accurately match the endless buzzing, the nervous cold, the dedication to rain and smoke...cold things; warm things; no temperature at all, but as sterile and untouchable as glacial sugar, sweet as it too. This vexation, the summer breeze baked clean by the passing heaviness of a stentorian storm, and the flush tone of your mouth on a sly private smile while you float in the bestial solitude between consciousness and unconsciousness, all add up to that now I love you without knowin any way, indeed 'thout knowin any other road, than the one that leads to your back door, the home that was chosen by me when I was desperate in the cold for a little peace to steady the jarring pace of my mind, and chosen by my poverty when it came upon me like a highway vagabond, and by my need when it sprung upon me like an armed man, and I dint have no choice- I did but the intensity of medicinal shadows and the lightning that disoriented me against its darkness told me otherwise- I didn't have a choice but was chosen and that lead me to your sloping bones, your eyes seeing beyond, the rough coffee light of your skin (knock out, tumble me up as in a wave and spit me out alone, rough treatment)...sloping bones that seep all articulate locust sugar into my own, eyes that stir desire (frighten it with nightmares, waking up in sweat near dawn), skin that makes everything way too far- like telephone wires- when it's under my tongue, under the puppet strings of my scheming brainfluid...
notes;;
thanks for reading! :D
☆On leaving
I hated to live as I was living then, blindly tearing through the jungle of your heat after you'd left the room, in the passing confusion of your cloying scent. How could I live like that? Of course I had to go, either to keep from going under, or else to keep my pride from drowning; things are always gray. Living in your shadow once you'd turned to stone on me; it turned into a quiet war that few people attended. If you felt I was a foreigner, that was it, that was where I cut it short. And weary, I left; most things never truly see the light of day.
Why is it that a person feels bad if they kill a thing of beauty? Does something deserve to live for its beauty? Although I tried to run- although I tried to escape to the highlands and lose myself in my ideals- the jungle scent pursued me like a bad memory, and as I grew closer to the shadow I was gathered closer to you. And so, exhausted by hatred and judgement that never came to the good it was spost to, I fell to a numb kinda love that I made entirely alone, and that powdered remedy cursed my bones until it finally eroded them away.
☆SUMMER SKETCH
He sighed for daylight but could honestly only find refuge in the night; walking dark roads, shelter of a twiceshunned alley beast. He felt like his brain had been drinking or like his senses had been stripped of all decency; he was drained, and- his consciousness collapsing into sugar- heavy calumny nothingness- could not consistently recognize the things around him or call them by familiar names, he could only feel em.
The thunderstorm that surrounded him was luxurious with its subtropical heat; slow winding, under hypnosis. The rain fell slow, paw-soft, whispered tender little things that dodged up from under, soft arcs breathing on his skin. A flash of lightning would harm the silence and then thunder would come, not a sound but a vibration of distant roaring shaking through the concrete to his bones, frightening a fugitive heart. Sapped, that was it, drained; the chaos of humidity moved naked- swept like a wind- in the caves of his empty hands...the light was low and lit with tones of purple. The scent of summer soil rose from the earth heavy and thick, undertoned by tiny electric stars: sparks in the air, spark dim in the distance, the rain quickened but still fell soft and left enough room for a solemn man to move. His mouth tasted like nothing but water; should he duck down to the cartoon lights on the avenue struck humb ahead?
The cypress trees were just palm trees in disguise and he sped up his gait as thunder's tongue was like a stone warning: the late night lights were a dream and his hand swept backwards to clear the phantom from his brow- he was chilled to find his forehead thick and cold with dormant sweat...
☆the dead-end road
In that darkness flickering in the land of light like liquid- in repose- your skin looks cold as though in a museum but it confuses my armies because it's warmed by love, but even armies wouldn't accurately match the endless buzzing, the nervous cold, the dedication to rain and smoke...cold things; warm things; no temperature at all, but as sterile and untouchable as glacial sugar, sweet as it too. This vexation, the summer breeze baked clean by the passing heaviness of a stentorian storm, and the flush tone of your mouth on a sly private smile while you float in the bestial solitude between consciousness and unconsciousness, all add up to that now I love you without knowin any way, indeed 'thout knowin any other road, than the one that leads to your back door, the home that was chosen by me when I was desperate in the cold for a little peace to steady the jarring pace of my mind, and chosen by my poverty when it came upon me like a highway vagabond, and by my need when it sprung upon me like an armed man, and I dint have no choice- I did but the intensity of medicinal shadows and the lightning that disoriented me against its darkness told me otherwise- I didn't have a choice but was chosen and that lead me to your sloping bones, your eyes seeing beyond, the rough coffee light of your skin (knock out, tumble me up as in a wave and spit me out alone, rough treatment)...sloping bones that seep all articulate locust sugar into my own, eyes that stir desire (frighten it with nightmares, waking up in sweat near dawn), skin that makes everything way too far- like telephone wires- when it's under my tongue, under the puppet strings of my scheming brainfluid...
notes;;
thanks for reading! :D