Somniloquies

Long overdue and horrendously supplied. Possibly a rough draft if it is hated.
For Rex.

---

When first you part those hued
lips, and slit your unknown eyes,
know that the penumbral day will
shift.
Soon, rockets will suspend before
you and glimmers shall dazzle
and sweet sounds will work their way
down your wind pipe.

The trees beyond the window
will bloom for you
today, tomorrow, every day,
for you make them your own
as soon as those tiny, windowed disks
blink and focus.

We are all caked in our bodies
-saturated-
but you, small one,
you will grow and stretch
and slowly find your fingers
and toes, and that,
in some ways, is the true
awakening: the discovery of syllables
and an enticement onto wobbly legs.

Dear, understand that
livers sometimes grow forth
from bodies,
and days pass like flippant memories,
and wars, they break out
like a plague across the country,
but it's all matter-of-fact.
Someday soon, it will all wash away
and dawn-circles will once again find your windowpane.

Somniloquies, dearest.
Warmth and surrender.
Let the ocean take your breath.

What the World Will Look Like When All the Mirrors Leave Us

This feels a little like an ode to orwell, but that comes later.
Thoughts? I feel like this needs to be read out loud, or screamed.
Not sure about the last little stanza; it's not complete, and I just scribbled it out in a fit. This isn't completed, I just need...opinions?
Not sure about the title either; it feels like cheating. I know what I want to say, I just can't.

---

Perhaps we will run our hands over our bare naked bodies to feel the bruises, take swaddling-cloth into our spines, and attempt to cloak the hatred sprouting leaves from our ventricles - oh, the hatred that makes us want to discard all our boots; the boots lashed up to our knees in the thickest leather, unbending. It is a decision we know ourselves isn’t right, but unsettling things make most of us queasy and short-of-breath and just a little road-sick, craving gravel. Some may ask what it is to feel hollow. It is this.

Perhaps we will acid-wash away with all the denim in our genes, white-washed and strung up like fence posts, or hung by the ankles so all the blood rushes to our skulls and we forget that we aren’t fish and can easily swim. Perhaps our bodies will be left only in shadows seen scurrying from board to bed, dresser to table, begging for vitamin C, clinging waxen and achy to picture frames and those last long-forgotten faces. The message machine will ask us, “are your memories unsettling or are you already dead?” And they won’t see, but the faces - oh the acrylic and plaster and over-coats we don so luxuriously - will be peeling themselves away in sickness. The bodies will be filing into the blockade, lacing their masks tighter, taking a staple gun and bullet-proofing their jaws against words. Already, we will have lost so much and not realized.

Imagine, the extraordinary words will go first. Echolalia and soft mouths and bleeding, guttural, MIMSIES IN THE TRASH! Stuffed down the garbage disposal with desolation and flaccid handfuls of boyish hair and anamnesis, clogging - clogging up everything, every little morsel of good and doublegood and doubleplusgood and anything anyone ever thought or wondered or dropped into a street grate and fought to find. The intercom, the people will scream. The intercom. And oceans will eat the city because they are tired of living famished lives lapping up sand and carrion, and they have children to feed as well, and we never leave. Outside is another one of those words that will bleach-spot and mustard-stain itself to inscrutability and leave us wondering where we used to go and why. Sunlight means next-to-nothing if darkness is just the lights turned off or eyes closed. What is left to see beneath the curtain-folds?

We will conceal ourselves perfectly, encased in alabaster cells and wallpaper, never again to use these machines called bodies, perhaps out of vengeance or mirth or simply the human condition.

Body-Snatched

Something I'm experimenting with, and may need some possible help with if any random french speaking person stumbles upon this. My grammar is not what it used to be (or ever was); most of this was written straight from my french-to-english dictionary. I just think it sounds prettier in french.

Corps-lié,
corps arraché,
corps.
Comme il vous plaira de l'appeler,
je ne peux pas disperser mes lèvres;
ne peut pas fermer mes yeux pour trouver ces lueurs
ils sont juste au bord de quelque chose d'autre.
Je veux les capturer il
- entre la tache de rousseur sur ma paupière
et le tourbillon de mon iris -
mais elles flottent, moins tangibles, de moi.

Je ne peux pas décaler ou reprendre
les mécaniciens;
ne peut pas soulever mes épaules
ou exposer mes jambes à au même oxygène
les arbres une fois inhalées
parce qu’il ya des vallées pleines de rivières pleines de poissons
pleins de cailloux dans ma façon,
inondations la mêlée de ma caisse nue
entre gauche et droite
et mes genoux quand je s'éloignais.

Je ressens le besoin de courir jusqu'à ce que les semelles de mes pieds sont endoloris
et ma gorge est congélateur brûlé;
de jeter derrière moi demain
à la recherche de quelque chose une fois, j'ai su faire,
mais je ne sais pas où pour exécuter
sauf jusqu'à.
Et je ne peux pas trouver les escaliers.



And...the english version, for all you native speakers.

Body-bound,
body-snatched,
body.
Whatever you want to call it,
I cannot disperse my lips;
cannot close my eyes to find those glimmers
they say are just on the brink of something else.
I want to capture them there
- between the freckle on my eyelid
and the swirl of my iris -
but they float, less than tangible, from me.

I cannot shift or resume
the mechanics;
cannot lift my shoulders
or expose my legs to the same oxygen
the trees once breathed
because there are valleys full of rivers full of fish
full of pebbles in my way,
flooding the ruckus of my bare body
between left and right
and my knees when I step away.

I feel the need to run until the soles of my feet are sore
and my throat is freezer-burned;
to cast tomorrow behind me
in search of something I once knew how to do,
but I don’t know where to run
except up.
And I can’t find the stairs.

221 B

Something slightly awkward with all the wording and references, but necessary nonetheless. For my sister, because she's obsessed. :) I think brunettes should be called chestnuts from now on.






and she is a chestnut, just like me;
roasting those pale thighs in the sun,
freckles blooming like tulips in a Rorschach,
dearest-Watson smiles sashaying from her
hand-over-laugh lips.
Backwards, bent-double,
together we are leaping over rooftops,
swimming like Dory: down, singing.
I am autumn's atonement,
and she is summer's smile;
a blatant refusal to slick sun-screen
on tan-hungry shoulders.

While the rains sleep,
she sighs and reverse-curls
to my side, covers thrown opposite
into the gap's thirsty, darkened maw:
open-less eyes fluttering in the partiality of
dreams - like a deformity of recollection;
an inability to accept reality as definable
by light.

I am autumn's atonement,
and she is summer's smile;
lifting up on elbows to decipher
the rache scratched inaudibly into
those noctilucent cloud-layers -
pinkish fingernails
tenaciously worn to the quick.
Sometimes, she hides in plain-sight,
hunting amongst the crowd for a
delight; alas, poor Yorick:
skull in the palm of her hand.
She is quaffing coffee
by the cup-full,
patches discarded as poisonously-sweet.

She is a chestnut, just like me,
as we balance on our bellies
watching the surf come in and
the moon rise all full and white
to fill in the ozone-holes leaking
star-matter.
She doodles "peace" on her arms,
and I feel the violin of thought
vibrate in my temples - supplanting.

The Sir was right:
to die is, truly, an art.

Echoing Mimsies

I desperately crave a glimpse of limping muse. :[   Just some leftovers to try to spring myself into creativity. meh. Mimsy as in the nonce word combining both miserable and flimsy; not as in the slang word vagina. :) pretty sure I misused it in the title, but whatever; it's a made-up word. I can misuse it if I want. Enjoy (grumble, grumble...math; grumble, grumble...French-and-Indian War)



Dear wanderlust,
I feel the inchoation
of ten-thousand tongues
sizzle-snapping against my ricocheting arms.
I wind up anti-clockwise,
bowing belly-up, head arching to
see what lays beyond the unseen
and the retrospective-easel of consequence.
15 particles of hair threaten to dangle past
the asymptote - delicate Proclamation Line - and
I think I may finally get it
Mr. Gray; {y does not exactly equal wonderful} and
{x is not always the decimation of tides.}
Sometimes the domain crosses the range,
and there are implications,
exclamations, and interpretations
of truth.
F(x) marks the spot where you will
not find me.

Crickets play hexachords on tinder-tender
hips, chirruping outside my shutter-slit eyes,
and sometimes in the baking heat of nightmare,
I beg them: slower, slower. Make the night
lag a little longer through
daybreak.
I would chime in, but it appears I am musty;
rat-a-tat-tatting on wood-paneling,
squeaking and chipping pieces of aperture
with each skippity-skip-rustle breath.
In the deep of morning, it is a bagpipe that
is resonating in my organs, flutes sounding;
on lazy days, the ivy-vines
can be seen metastasizing upon
the very skin I trapeze.
Does this mean I'm lonely?

Dear carpet-cluster,
I thrust the throttle forward
and fell down because I lost the acceleration
in my knees.
This moment is a horrid one
because I cannot seem to
collapse my backwards-elbows
like a tent, shins shunting into vinyl
bags for storage. Understand, I need every brittle pinion,
because I was born four teeth past telling and
four bones short of strong.
The wind can blast me cerebrum-down
or sunny-side-up and it won't matter,
because fingers have
twinkle-twisted me
asunder.
There isn't any room for
ruminations or ripened spiders
in my bedazzled sleeves.
I am walking icy-hot on coals
of disaster, and my ear-canals are telling me
westward
is where home has blown.

Glassy windows crack open enough for
air to circulate but not to my
delight, as manuscripts are
often unnumbered and torn from my hand
in a tornado of analytical-disintegration.

Between forest-fires and lackadaisical
leaves, I clickity-clack these words onto
the underbellies of trees, scrounging around for
leftovers to nuke and, hopefully,
send me whip-lashing back to originality,
because most of what I have seen
is plain ignorance and rusty inference.
I want something luscious and drenched
in liberties; tempestuous and total.
Does this mean I'm undeserving?

Bathroom Ideas

Wrote this while my friend and I were changing for P.E.
Keep in mind, I do not do her any justice.
--on a side note...I feel slightly useless. I never blog. I just post my shit and logout.--



Balanced on the sink,
there is an instinct:
the instinct of a wounded animal to hide.

Stockings furl gently over timidly
scarred kneecaps (too many nights pretending
not to pray), tuck-and-rolling around
those thighs; thighs with muscles that
run the full length
up,
like a seam: a seam in too-tight jeans.

She stands, tugging her skirt down,
always down in the back, front, right side,
left side because short is not enough fabric
to conceal all
the sensitive spots she thinks she
owns like rainbow wristbands.

There is a vagueness in her movements
that makes you wish for more.

Lonely eyes glimmer green in
passing; eye contact a thing of
fleeting beauty and expression:
always a half-smile hidden on
pavement-lined lips: bitten red.
A loneliness seeps into those steps --
shuffle-shuffle, shuffle-scuff
-- so shallow and innocent.
She does not look at herself in the mirror
unless to paint her face away,
pencil on eyelids.

There is a tenderness in the way
she braids her hair over one shoulder
because there is no one to
do it for her.

Clavicle, and it feels like your hands

nyuh, titles kill me, but here you go. there's a line...a line that I hate, but I can't improve it. :P
ah, the moments of waking.



I sleep
bare-backed and
unbuttoned, wintry thighs
kissed by the chill
of May, sheets coiled in
tea-leaf shapes. Pictures
flutter on the walls, an expenditure
of light, open
windows breathing thumbs
across the bed frame,
my right-sided clavicle.
Somewhere inside
the womb, my hips begin and
ankles end, an obtuse
slant of knees
knocking
on your bedroom
door.

I shift and
sigh.

My socks are what touch
the ground
first, legs over the
edge, shadows in the
leech-light. There comes
a transition
- shower hiss and
silent sway - in
which the wh-wh-whiring
of the ceiling fan
is the closest I come
to the sun.