|Props to for the image and for helping me create an account . In Shanghai, expat travelling around the world.|
MementoI trim the stone wings of your dead angel:Memento by reflectionsinwater
shedding off, carefully, letting its corroding eyes
view your mattress nailed to nobody’s ground. And how
nonchalantly, you say your goodbyes, gone for one trip.
Six o clock, you were going on roads. Indigo roads,
casting their long shadows on hedges when it came;
And it came! You heard the brakes whistle like banshees,
(what the ghost a world is, you would tell me,)
and it went, finally, sweating the violet road.
To hear how your spines uncorrelate:
piece by piece to the world’s endless crossing railroads,
a metallic puzzle without an if and only fit.
You don’t belong here,
I would agree. Unjustly, I couldn’t disagree.
Would you agree?
This earth needs its lawn-keepers living and leaving.
Who will tend to its gargoyles when they cease?
Who will see to the blossom of your rock feathers
when they effervesce in your acid rain?
At midnight, the night sun sieves
radiantly black at your shell and breath;
a smoke rises
Shorelineto know this even onceShoreline by talvipaivanseisaus
to feel this violent beauty against the skin of my palms
to leave tracks and marks, cairns built out of memories
the sweet scent of existence,
for this I would give up my sky
paint the world in your image
let go of my days for your nights in all of their wistful bloom
and yet, you stand before me where the sea finally opens
your eyes looking both inward and toward the dream:
the place within where we could once see angels dance
and you take me by the hand,
lead me past the driftwood and the ash
gently as if we were made of glass
sometimes, it really is as simple as that
on self-assessmentThis is a poem for all the people who stillon self-assessment by intricately-ordinary
have something to see in me. I could
cut myself on the sharp edge of my thoughts,
bleed out a saturated river of
something sweet; I could be like a million
other gifts from mother nature to preserve
in glass cases and scientific journals and
buzz words, to picket and fight over and
eventually forget. I could
write a million stories about the universe
in my stomach, and my lack of
a gag reflex and the irony in that.
I could write about the blooming storms
in my head and about how I’m addicted
to bad weather, and how I can’t hear myself
over the static waves rocking me to sleep.
My best friend is the most beautiful hurricane
I’ve ever seen, slow motion wreckage who says things like
what does it even mean, where are
we going, maddie, what am I even here for;
My first love wasn’t special. It was
ignorant and narcissistic and orbited around me
like some neglected planet, like I
was finally the center of a universe