Tag: poetry

she grins at you and
you’re speechless, tongue-tied,
your thoughts dancing around
in an endless circle.

your fingers tremble at your sides.

she’s a jagged way of beautiful,
has destruction in her eyes,
intelligence, too, sharp and icy
and absolutely captivating.

your fingers tremble at your sides.

she’s not a goddess like you
but she fights like she is, twirls around you
in an endless circle, smiling like she’s
the immortal one.

your fingers tremble at your sides.

she isn’t grinning anymore,
her fine face twisted into a grimace,
salty blood dripping from her side.

your fingers stop trembling
the moment she stops breathing.

your heart says it was an accident. your mind isn’t so sure. | (h.c.r.)

There is a different kind of world out there
and it is not called Heaven
or any word they have taught me.

In this place, we have a language with no words.
None of us remember what a scream sounds like.
We have bodies but they do not ache
and they are seen the way
we want them to be.

I know we built it with our own hands
and it is good. I know this is my smallest,
truest hope. The thing is,
everything about this place
removes me from myself.

So much of what I want
is to be less a person.
Fewer crackings and moans.
When I imagine myself
I am barely there.

A Different Kind of World, Clementine von Radics (via clementinevonradics)

The history is all wrong.

There was no apple bitten, no snake tempting, no man blaming
It was just us – the wild children of Eden

All honeyed skinned, and golden tongued
All fault-line glances, all suffocating rectitude.

I had a dream we were robbing constellations,
Turning harps rotten until it shook
God in to a hunger strike.

It was looking through another soul
Seeing all dark sides, the hidden
Atrophy, seeing the dynamite in his mouth
and never faltering in crashing lips.

I see us as how we had been, or
How we could be.

How wounding. How disdainfully us.

Your rib, my poniard
My heart, your fruit.

Loving you was the first religion
Loving you was the first offering.

Today we are half sick celestials.
the myth of a memory
Eons ago we were but humans caught
In the war between God and Satan.

The scriptures got it all wrong,
We were as much as the world’s undoing
As we were its casualties.

Someday we will be more than rumor fed shadows.

Camillea // BEHIND THE SCENES WITH ADAM & EVE (Part 1)

you’ve written a couple of poems about them, so can you talk about your feelings on atlas and prometheus? i feel like they have such incredible potential in their narratives and you’re one of the first people i’ve seen to compare them

darshanasuresh:

i. for two titans, their humanity is overwhelming. 

ii. prometheus stands chained to the rock like a masthead of a ship. his shoulders shake & tremble and he screeches like & alongside & at the eagle (that’s all he has for company, anyway).

iii. atlas shakes & trembles just as much, his knees almost touching the ground. he holds the heavens. he holds the celestial spheres. he holds so much, & yet he is so lonely.

iv. prometheus gave & gave, and he thinks about this as he keens in pain. he has too much time to think, always too much, and too little to do. he thinks about the fire he cupped in his palms. about how while the mortals scurry far far below him, he is left caged despite being out in the open. he thinks about the bones he made the gods pick and he laughs. he laughs as his liver is torn open. he thinks and he laughs. he starts looking forward to the time each day when the eagle returns, because that way he has something to scream about. someone to scream to.

v. atlas uncovers the time heracles took his burden slowly, slowly, slowly, like a starving man saving his last morsel of food. it’s not the pain he minds so much, not the weight on his back that is pushing him towards the ground. it teaches him something about his spine, something about how it curves & curves and still somehow remains unsnapped. no, what he minds is the groaning urge to run, to run, to run. what he minds is his inability to do so. he remembers when heracles took his place with a thirst that overshadows the heavens.

vi. prometheus wonders if he would still do the same if he could go back, but then he remembers the future, the one where heracles comes and releases him, and he bellows instead. thinking & thinking & thinking. that’s what they don’t realise, the mortals. when you live forever you think forever. you see forever. his mind is more inescapable than his chains.

vii. atlas savours the taste of the war he fought, the one where he stood with the other titans. the one where he stood against his own brother. he thinks about how they’re both lashed down now, and he laughs bitterly. when he starts asking himself whether he should have fought with the gods instead, he remembers where prometheus is and laughs harder.

viii. they both did what they thought was right, & now their screams resound & bounce off each other’s. together.

She came with me, you see.
Swallowed whole, licked her lips.
Juice stained her mouth.
She bared her sharp little teeth and asked for more.
My bird-boned bride with a lion’s heart-
I am tender with her.
She soothes and comforts, encompasses and intoxicates,
The dearest demon I’ve ever seen.

I have never loved the light;
It has been harsh and hot and there was nothing I wanted there.
But she is full of earth, of growing things.
She carries golden summer in her laugh.
When above is barren, she is warm.
She is so alive.

Souls drift through my land, solitary and silent.
(What sad creatures these men become.)
When they wail in the night, I press my knees to the ground,
Listening for her voice at my gates.
Wait, she calls. Soon.

She sweeps in with the first of the rains,
As the trees sway, dancing their autumnal rhythm,
As the leaves whither and fall,
As the petals collapse into memories.
Her ivy fingers twine in my hair and I twine around her.
The storm breaks.
I touch her and I am home.

Homecoming (l.e.a.p)

Companion piece to Love, Persephone

(via indigoskyes)

Mama,
You could make everything but me grow and bloom and blossom.
I always loved  things more when they were wounded, dying, dead.
Do you remember, mama?
I would crouch in the dirt with some pitiful wounded creature,
Waiting and watching as it shuddered and squeaked and died.
I buried them with my own hands, mud caking my arms.
There are shadows you never saw in me, mama, but he does.
He reaches for them and they reach for him and I am happy.
When we kiss, I can taste pomegranate on his lips.
It is bitter and red. I could drink and drink forever.
Nothing about him scares me.
I am the only one who can make him stop howling.
He says he hears them all the time – the souls, mama –
But I bring him peace.
Who wouldn’t want such power?
I used to bruise like petals as a child, but not anymore.
I am his and he is mine and, mama,
I am finally, finally mine.
I’ll see you come spring.

Love, Persephone (l.e.a.p)

I don’t know if there is a god
or if god is just all of my relatives
forming a nebula somewhere
deep past earth
that one day I will collide with.
Honest, all of my ghost stories
are just stories
and angels are nothing but
dust dancing
in front of windows these days.
I don’t think I want to believe
in divine right
or divine mothers
or divine vaginas.
I don’t want to believe that
serial killers can become saints
if they pillow-talk the right way.
We are all bastards and broken
and there is no hope in that;
only sick solidarity.
All I know is that love is not finite.
I know that long after my
body becomes a cadaver,
after the rats use my limbs
as a winter home,
this love will remain.
The way you hold me at 3am
following another nightmare
will still radiate through these walls
hundreds of tenants past us.
One day, another couple
will sleep in this same room
and make up lies
to explain away how the
floorboards creak in a rhythm.
They will not know,
can not know,
that it is still our bodies touching,
still us trying to prove that
people can take in each other.
That something can
latch on through the eons.
That we,
that this,
that us,
that earth,
that orgasm,
that god,
is something we can summon
if we lay hands
on each other in the right way.

b.e.fitzgerald (my youth pastor cringes)