I'd gut that hill just to -- by merrydishnig, literature
Literature
I'd gut that hill just to --
And whenever I think of writing it up I'm torn; torn like birthday cake and buttons. I doubt you're half as composed as you don't wanna pretend. But it's okay like breathing is okay, like writing is. If you want to be angry and dazed but not enough to think twice when you peel a mirror out the envelope or the brick or the sweating man --- think Star wars. I don't mean any specific scene just, you know, think about the movie. When I talk to people at class, it is contrived as anything. I am so gullible as to fall for tricks and all the backwards cheer of people I look down at. Not that I snob when i can help it but It's hard to think when
I'd gut that hill just to -- by merrydishnig, literature
Literature
I'd gut that hill just to --
And whenever I think of writing it up I'm torn; torn like birthday cake and buttons. I doubt you're half as composed as you don't wanna pretend. But it's okay like breathing is okay, like writing is. If you want to be angry and dazed but not enough to think twice when you peel a mirror out the envelope or the brick or the sweating man --- think Star wars. I don't mean any specific scene just, you know, think about the movie. When I talk to people at class, it is contrived as anything. I am so gullible as to fall for tricks and all the backwards cheer of people I look down at. Not that I snob when i can help it but It's hard to think when
There's a black flag over Helsinki,
And there's a yellow cab flying down the city street,
And I am prone to stepping off curbs without looking,
And there's a man who grabs my arm and says be careful.
He is looking at the cement and the way my shoes are tilting,
And he asks me if I might spare some change,
There is worry on my chin and there is anger on my forehead,
And I wonder aloud why he works on Sundays.
There's a black flag over Helsinki,
And he's turning and he's walking from my view,
So I must hasten pace against the oncoming wind,
There is hair in my eyes and I think that I might sneeze soon.
I put a dime in his hand,
A miss is as good as a smile by horsemarmalade, literature
Literature
A miss is as good as a smile
Year-trust is located neck-up.
Carried around
jested, barely missing;
hounded.
Morals, when will they come -
on whose chopped-off legs?
In which desert's countenance
will the blind man have to feel around for them,
he whose fingerwisdoms
(covered with clay)
grow more slowly
than earth's continents?
What price does a catch come at?
How many fingernails?
an old guitarist sitting
on a watercolor hill,
plucking on six strings absent.
two halves of breasts running near
under van gogh's starry night,
under black-white guernica.
everything in all jigsaws,
everything in trepid cubes.
a girl before a mirror
with violin and guitar,
sitting with three musicians
and a woman with her book,
stippling all realities
of intangible maternity.
hours yielding from dalí's clock,
minutes sub-the alchemist
like rain, like raining, like rained—
portraits wilt with abstract smiles.
clear sfumato, oh still life,
napoleon at seven.
There are worlds as far away
as school boys' shoes are laced.
I fell behind the learning curve,
one day while asleep in my crib.
They talked, the walls, without my knowing,
and I slept like cabinets sound when shut.
The feeling of pine was kept under
slacks as I kicked and scuffed off the floor
with my eyeglasses-for-shoes. I worried, then,
what the world would say if it discovered I was less than twenty-twenty...
I'm meant to be a writer, say I, but my mother doesn't understand. She stands over me and my tiny room, towering like a giant. She is the birth beast, the originator, she gave birth to me, and yes, she could kill me too, no jury would convict her. But then with imagery like that, perhaps I'm not quite the writer I claim to be.
Writing won't pay your bills, Margot. Writing won't get you married. Writing won't feed your family. She says this in a warning tone, the type mothers always use when they want to appear benevolently concerned, or at least hiding the self-loathing at having created the worthless beings they call children
Who are all these women
on the streets tonight? It's a massacre
I didn't appoint. Dead like flies
on a winter's day, dead like roses under-
ground, dead like the space between
my door and your door -
I have loved you too many ways.
You must take your tools,
your jacks and pulleys, you must leave
here and never turn around - I will be
brewing an apocalypse from now until
the gates clang shut and don't come looking
or I will build you up of salt and flood
the land with you, there will be no green
between us - only the white of you spread out, only your eyes
to watch between your door and my door where I
left nothing more. Than
You rolled on;
Some pretty myth of self-renewal
Fell on us;
The burnt womb and the Mother play
A sort of weird charades
So this is justice.
Eternal birth, 2 a.m.,
Bushfire and harbor lights
Waltz pathetic on your waves;
On and on.
You're armless, or I would hug,
And prove rumors of your drunk depths shallow.
Black sky and obese land
Attach your ball and chain;
Stupid plastic fairy lights
Sponge your pride,
Shriek at dribble,
Sink into their heavenly reflections;
Foghorns blare:
Sweetheart, I drown every night.