Dear mother//christ//lover//punctuation//anathema//fallacy//freedom//whoever.will.read.me.
More results - Citrus veins. And here I am, without a hero. I would let anyone seduce me, if they were willing. But I would wilt within a few measly hours, and have them play songs on shells, and sink into the sandy depths of something I’m not.
The water here is pithy, it leaves me blank. My skin is getting clearer now; I look like a porcelain doll. Tufts of hair slithering around my scalp in meaningless curls. Arrays of ineptitude, bitter and bare, erupting from every consonant that softly explodes from between my two, thin, blistered lips.
“I’ve been filling myself with sour stones.”
Someday I will blossom into a temple in the mountains. Paper prayers will crowd around my thick, ivy-steeped walls and drown me. The practitioners will wear fanciful gowns in an attempt to stop missing the mark. They’ve got it all wrong.
Amidst the twanging of ceremonial instruments a new sound will flare up. An unbalanced melody, a thousand codas straining to stand out. It will sound like an army of drums. It will rise and fade like the tides, and in between the strict sounds, snippets of soliloquy will rise up and play like static. All our conversations will become accelerant for the gleaming green ocean.
On the 77th night all the sorrowful sailors will take to the seas in grand wooden boats. They will construct natural alters, and miniature forests. They will bring torches, and arrange themselves into meaningful geometric patterns which will be eternally non-descript. They will look up to me, standing feebly below the giant horizon. They will see the glimmer of a smile I cannot give, and plunge the torches into the sea.
The flames will catch immediately on the waves, and in whirling dervishes, they will engulf the sea. The luster will intimidate the young moon. And the sun will grow envious. The whole of the vaulted sky will crumble to the ground.
The scientists were wrong, they’ll say. About all the things that we can’t touch. The holy men too.
But everything is fine, and we won’t be overwhelmed. Time will make an understanding gesture, and allow us to savor those smaller things.
The wet warm air will aid in the convalescing of blind prophets and sunken muses.
You and I will be sitting on the hilltop, near an older incarnation of us both. I’ll strain my eyes against the light of the sea, and you smile weakly at me. We’ll lay back on the grass, let it curl up around our limbs and conceal us from whatever it is we are hiding from.
You’ll turn your head to me and say “I’ve never met anyone so proud of being a virgin.”
I’ll consider a thousand affirming responses, but opt instead for a cursory glance at the holes in the sky.
Slowly your words will mesh into a single sound, and I will sink further into the ground.
Some people would panic.
But being paralyzed never felt so great,
The water here is pithy, it leaves me blank. My skin is getting clearer now; I look like a porcelain doll. Tufts of hair slithering around my scalp in meaningless curls. Arrays of ineptitude, bitter and bare, erupting from every consonant that softly explodes from between my two, thin, blistered lips.
“I’ve been filling myself with sour stones.”
Someday I will blossom into a temple in the mountains. Paper prayers will crowd around my thick, ivy-steeped walls and drown me. The practitioners will wear fanciful gowns in an attempt to stop missing the mark. They’ve got it all wrong.
Amidst the twanging of ceremonial instruments a new sound will flare up. An unbalanced melody, a thousand codas straining to stand out. It will sound like an army of drums. It will rise and fade like the tides, and in between the strict sounds, snippets of soliloquy will rise up and play like static. All our conversations will become accelerant for the gleaming green ocean.
On the 77th night all the sorrowful sailors will take to the seas in grand wooden boats. They will construct natural alters, and miniature forests. They will bring torches, and arrange themselves into meaningful geometric patterns which will be eternally non-descript. They will look up to me, standing feebly below the giant horizon. They will see the glimmer of a smile I cannot give, and plunge the torches into the sea.
The flames will catch immediately on the waves, and in whirling dervishes, they will engulf the sea. The luster will intimidate the young moon. And the sun will grow envious. The whole of the vaulted sky will crumble to the ground.
The scientists were wrong, they’ll say. About all the things that we can’t touch. The holy men too.
But everything is fine, and we won’t be overwhelmed. Time will make an understanding gesture, and allow us to savor those smaller things.
The wet warm air will aid in the convalescing of blind prophets and sunken muses.
You and I will be sitting on the hilltop, near an older incarnation of us both. I’ll strain my eyes against the light of the sea, and you smile weakly at me. We’ll lay back on the grass, let it curl up around our limbs and conceal us from whatever it is we are hiding from.
You’ll turn your head to me and say “I’ve never met anyone so proud of being a virgin.”
I’ll consider a thousand affirming responses, but opt instead for a cursory glance at the holes in the sky.
Slowly your words will mesh into a single sound, and I will sink further into the ground.
Some people would panic.
But being paralyzed never felt so great,