Tag: poetry

So maybe this time, love doesn’t kick down the door—
doesn’t rattle the windows or plant weeds in the flower garden.
Maybe you can’t smell the smoke because,
for once,
nothing is burning.
Maybe this love is all the things
those loves wanted to be when they grew up.
Maybe you spent all that time running
so that you’d know how to hang up your coat
when you were ready.

Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)

I. Icarus is a lonely boy sitting in a cafe, with ink blistered wings tattooed into his sunburnt skin. He falls into beds like they’re seas and loves suns who don’t give a damn. Wax coats his fingers and he laughs, not knowing why.

II. Cassandra lives in a room made of four windows. Strangers kiss her in dreams as she screams. She sees all, and none believe. “Unstable.” “Wicked.” “Tragic.” They whisper, protected behind planes of broken glass.

III. Achilles offers triumphant smiles as he holds up bloody knuckles. He fights wars on street corners and shares his victory with his beloved. He runs in the moonlight, until his feet ache and his legs collapse. He knows the world is meant to be his, and he will conquer it all.

IV. Pandora listens to the universe from the back of a philosophy class. She inhales chaos and exhales despair. Sweaters cover scared wrists and misery clings to chapped lips. She worships with hollow, faithless eyes. They call her hopeless as she smiles, dried skin cracking. They know nothing.

V. Orpheus plays his music in cigarette haze filled bars. He swallows pills and wine and never dies. He sees shadows flicker when he looks over his shoulder, consuming him. He forgets.

Myths and heroes, they adapt too | p.d  (via stolenwine)

@enolie this seemed like you

(via hubertgirl)

Bob Hicok, “A little mustard, side of pickle”

poem-locker:

Who am I to be the one you love?
Shouldn’t I want you to have better? Taller
and more hook-shot capable? A man with a bigger wad
of cash? But I’ll make you a turkey sandwich
anyway. Not the best in the world, but the best
on this day on this plate. And kiss you
before and after. These are the practice oaths.
The small bonds that carry us like boats
until we arrive at this – I promise to love
your cancer or the way you’ll think
in twenty thirty it’s nineteen eighty six. Year
we met. Year I broke my foot. Year I tried
gymnastics in a cast. Of all the broken-footed
first-time tumblers, I was the best at being
worst. Promise to be a savant at stay. At pulling
the plug when you would have it yanked. No mere
head of lettuce, you. No slug. And very,
so very best at not wanting to live a day
without you. Decades ago, I turned pro at that.

You can’t have him
His is not yours- I plead

But Hades
He already has his plans
Muses have measured their thread
The urn has been made

Take me instead
Me over him- I bargain

And Hades
He rubs his hands together
The muses remeasure their thread
The urn will not be empty

And I

I pick up your helmet
I grease your sandals
I take your place

soon our ashes will be mixed [S.G.]
(via pesmenos)

I dream of you, love of my life, most in the fall
When rain falls easy on red brick
And a crisp breeze flirts with the nape of my neck.
You have seen me depart far too soon
For far too long,
But you are still the breath that soothes
The months-long cramp in my lungs,
And my smile finds you.
In spite of that old grief in the harsh lights,
You still hold me safe and sure and real.
So I ride six hours north,
Back to you, back home
To find you once more.

Hometown (l.e.a.p)

Draco Malfoy Looks Into the Mirror of Erised

brennatwohy:

& the portraits fade from his mother’s walls. 
Narcissa sips Firewhiskey with a different man,

his hair dark and simple.

maybe he has a mole on his jawbone.

maybe he has an accent only when he’s been drinking.

maybe they have a beautiful daughter

whose forearm bears nothing but her own skin;

there is no kind way to tell this story,

so I might as well tell it true,

you would not wish yourself upon anyone.

& how else to explain grief but as this mirror,

this impossible joy

that will not let you hold it,

this mirror that leaves rocks in your pocket

& everyone you love 
looking like a river.

My love, take these walls, these wars.
          Dull my blades. I am tired of the hunt.
I’ve laid my only words at your feet. Open for me.
          I want to know, be known. Want and be wanted.

Jeanann Verlee, from “Your Mouth Is a Church, I Forgot How to Pray,” Nailed (July 21, 2014)

Revenge

ecc-poetry:

Since you mention it, I think I will start that race war.

I could’ve swung either way? But now I’m definitely spending
the next 4 years converting your daughters to lesbianism;
I’m gonna eat all your guns. Swallow them lock stock and barrel
and spit bullet casings onto the dinner table;

I’ll give birth to an army of mixed-race babies.
With fathers from every continent and genders to outnumber the stars,
my legion of hapa babies will be intersectional as fuck
and your swastikas will not be enough to save you,

because real talk, you didn’t stop the future from coming.
You just delayed our coronation.
We have the same deviant haircuts we had yesterday;
we are still getting gay-married like nobody’s business
because it’s still nobody’s business;
there’s a Muslim kid in Kansas who has already written the schematic
for the robot that will steal your job in manufacturing,
and that robot? Will also be gay, so get used to it:

we didn’t manifest the mountain by speaking its name,
the buildings here are not on your side just because
you make them spray-painted accomplices.
These walls do not have genders and they all think you suck.
Even the earth found common ground with us in the way
you bootstrap across us both,

oh yeah: there will be signs, and rainbow-colored drum circles,
and folks arguing ideology until even I want to punch them
but I won’t, because they’re my family,
in that blood-of-the-covenant sense.
If you’ve never loved someone like that
you cannot outwaltz us, we have all the good dancers anyway.

I’ll confess I don’t know if I’m alive right now;
I haven’t heard my heart beat in days,
I keep holding my breath for the moment the plane goes down
and I have to save enough oxygen to get my friends through.
But I finally found the argument against suicide and it’s us.
We’re the effigies that haunt America’s nights harder
the longer they spend burning us,
we are scaring the shit out of people by spreading,
by refusing to die: what are we but a fire?
We know everything we do is so the kids after us
will be able to follow something towards safety;
what can I call us but lighthouse,

of course I’m terrified. Of course I’m a shroud.
And of course it’s not fair but rest assured,
anxious America, you brought your fists to a glitter fight.
This is a taco truck rally and all you have is cole slaw.
You cannot deport our minds; we won’t
hold funerals for our potential. We have always been
what makes America great.

-e.c.c.