words come without their husbands (in health and in sickness but not in this sickness this tumble-out two-fingered leap of not-quite-faith), without sentences. without the glue, the pritt stick, buried under all the paper and the last leaves clinging to hungry branches, that i'm going to use to paste photos on the moon and hope they fit. words, i may or may not join them together. in amongst all the sand there is a maybe and an if, lots of ifs, and a perhaps, here and there. there was a then, holding the reins. baked golden, there is a now, somewhere.
thing #1: the smoke dissipates around my head, a cloud of bees that will land on flowers and have sex and get under the feet. buzz like my brain.
thing #2: i do not love you anymore. him. you, that ghost. that boy. that cup of tea left standing by the kettle. the sunshine that tarries in the crevice of the mattress, uncoiling itself on occasion and making its way over me, into me. and out, and out again. in, with final, gasping, chafing glory.
i read a book once and they discovered glory. at some point we found glory too, don’t you think? or the people we used to be did, regardless. puppets. us.
and also i read a poem once, the wasting game, prizes in the form of needles too small to matter, forfeits of exposure, of the magic hat being snatched away and the ugly underbelly left writhing under lights too bright to bear. got you. stumbles, caught out, deer on the motorway. how is it a game if you are the only player, throwing pins at your own ends like a man in a desert who keeps walking because he simply doesn’t know what else to do. who wins, with the collapsing of veins, the sticky electric kisses on every bone in your chest. tha-thump, thump, sorry, heart, that you are so feeble. eyes travel up a spine, mentally climbing every mountain. bump, bump, bump.
waiting: for god((ot) who isn’t really coming) and never showing any mercy
for snow
for a change in the wind that will blow you back into place
thinking: whose hands are they, anyway? whose breath is it, mixing with mine? whose joy, on the sheets, that is colder-than-thou, in the morning?
whose? not yours, not in the eyes. a different shade of blue.
glory.
Author notes
this is what happens, nowadays, i don't write things that slide into place. i am broken words. some of it.. do you get it? i hope you get it, and at the same time, i hope you don't.
also, it should be noted, the idea of glory came from a book. it's called evidence of things unseen, although i think maybe it's about things that are seen, too. i hope you read it. i am the sum of everything, all the tiny parts, from books and from paintings. from poetry.
most of the time i don't know what i'm talking about anymore
Comments
1 - 6 of 6
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i love it.
and you.
i can't think to be more constructive write now, so i shall applaud and admire.
you are amazing.
marry me? =) x
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"i do not love you anymore. him. you, that ghost. that boy. that cup of tea left standing by the kettle. the sunshine that tarries in the crevice of the mattress, uncoiling itself on occasion and making its way over me, into me. and out, and out again. in, with final, gasping, chafing glory."
absolutely incredible.
"thinking: whose hands are they, anyway? whose breath is it, mixing with mine? whose joy, on the sheets, that is colder-than-thou, in the morning?
whose? not yours, not in the eyes. a different shade of blue. "
So beautiful.
baby, you've got such a stunner voice. You amaze me and wind me into everything you write.
I love you.
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OH MY GOD.
i read evidence of things unseen. i hoped someone on AP had read it too. it was like poetry, wasn't it? i get the glory part. i love this more now. i'm so glad you're writing again, i missed you.
this is a kind of scatterplot beauty. sort of searching. but i enjoy it immensely. and wow i can't believe someone else has read that book.
<3
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YES
up until i read it i'd never thought of glory as a good thing. never thought of glory at all really, never really occurred to me
but then
i don't know. it was like a new perspective. the kind of thing you want to make people read because they simply MUST know of it and be enlightened but at the same time you want it all to yourself.
aahh
have you read 'if nobody speaks of remarkable things'?
<3
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but thats the reason why your poetry is so unique and differant. you dont always have to understand hun, i mean if we understood everything how would we be able to wonder and learn? anyways im glad to see you writing again, i know i say that alot but its really still great to know your writing still
btw i have a contest up, you dont have to enter but i invited you ♥ take care hun
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thank you my lovely. i've missed you. i've missed your comments that make me feel special
they really are appreciated.
as for this writing, this.. travesty.. (haha) what i think i feel about it is that it's fragmented. the words are still there but they aren't smooth like they used to be. which makes it so hard to construct anything remotely resembling a wannabe poem. after all, what are bones without their cartilage? or something.
i will of course try and enter your contest, i'm honoured you invited me
but please be warned that most things don't make the leap from my brain to paper anymore.
tra la la la la
i love you
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