rosemaryyou licked your lips when i walked insmelling of woodsmoke. there was a weight in the air, and the empty spacefelt unusually antiseptic.somehow i wasn't surprised to find you perched on the oldrocker granddad had built,your fingers tracing a labyrinth of grain.retracing.your voice surprised me.i sat on the floor,spine rooted to the doorjamb.i let you talk.my eyelids were branded; when i blinkedthe plasma echoes of the flames licked over your sharp edges.cheekbones,jawline.the moon hung low and weary and it seemed too light, still,to ask you to leave. hospitalityhas always been measured in lumen. so i heard not your wordsbut the erratic rise and fall of inflection,and remembered the way the fire sucked through the perforationsin the washing machine drum. feeding.there was a brief insistence in your tone, and istarted paying attention again.the question you swore you'd never ask.'can i stay?'i looked away from you then,through the window,and all i saw was a sto
on the roadhomecoming,dragging through the clingof elsewhere nightsand asphalt haze.the door creaks against thewhuffof stagnant air--antisepticand unwilling,and it takes you two triesto find the light switch.you sleep in the car.
4 Traits of a Damn Good Boyi. drivebuddy, you were a throwback. you had a lot of wolf in you,a feral soul.i hope heaven has eased the stiffness in your jointsand brushed the gray from your furand left you sleek and gorgeous,a solid pack of muscle with the kind of determinationthat can never be taught.i hope there are lizards for you to chase,doves for you to launch yourself afterand catch out of the air with a finesse that would make professionals weep.buddy, i hope someone's up there throwing a stick for you every now and then.i hope you give 'em hell when they want it back.ii. couragebuddy, it seemed like the world was a very scary place for you. i'm not sure why,and maybe i laughed at you a little--at the neurotic puppy inhabiting the commanding formof a hunter--and sometimes i got angry at youand your insistence that the world was out to get youand i'm sorry for that.it took me years to realize that something must have happenedto plant a deep and unshakeable fearin
fluencythe writer, in bed,ponders the hushing fricativesof denim on cotton,the liquid linguisticsof hips and ribs and delicatevertebra; and catalogues--files awayfor later--every shaking aspirant and everyquiet, arched-throat glottal stop,and the way it all justrollsso perfectlyoff the tongue.
travelersthis silvertongued landis fit for strange adventuresso we will roam as the citysleeps, and the softhushclickof the camera shutter will lull the cricketsto silence.we will leave our trailin incandescent flashes--the negatives seared and crackling onclosed eyes--and drag our hearts onmoonshine wisps behind us--gathering fog and scents andstrains of musiccarried in on night-thin air.
with thanks to frost Now with a reading.two roads diverged in a soulless dawnand you pull over,idling on the shoulder of route 50.it's a polaroid morning andthe world is as grainyand sleep-heavyas your eyes,and one million milesis not far enough.it plays back, filmstrip,blurred along the length ofoptic nerves,and here you are:facing a choice betweenonandout.and this?this loosejointed, hollowbodiedweightless ache--this is whatgonefeels like.
with thanks to salingerAudio version.it's on those cold morningswhen you are nothing but indrawn breathswirling and knitted up inside too-bigskin and weightless bones--when the horizon arches up againstthe half-thawed tendrils of sunriseand smileswith golden teeth,and smiling, begs--it's on those cold morningswhen leaving is easiest.the car will be cold, and you willshiver, and the engine,much too loud,will smack of blasphemybut you will find peace in the steady rollof tarmac and the yellowing lightspilling across it,with dust motes kicked up and carriedlike fish in the undertow.when you come to that firstcrossroads, it will shock you:the way the decision hangs theretrembling and desperate--but there are no right answers and you will nothesitate. and each successive choicewill be made of its own accord,and you will roll the windows down,and draw down the scent of ear
rapid eye movementi am jealousof my birdwinged half-sister.later, birdwinged reapers--black,looming quiet in every doorway. theyfollowed me from my hemmed-in waking terrorto the free reign of my subconscious.far better suited to their purposes.thunderstorms like supernovae out at sea, andempty little boats tossed on emptier shores.it rains, and the sea advances,cresting the saguaros. someone is lost.i don't know who. i don't know why icare so much.cliffs and skyscrapers. tightropes. sometimesi am afraid of heights, and sometimesafraid for those who are not.the skinny girlwith the long dark hair isalways worth dying for.sex. i am in turnbemused, and indifferent, and bored, andfrustrated, more often than anything.i like that i still remember how it felt to hug my dog,right down to the cool wirecoatand the warm fluff beneath,and his immensepatience.sometimes i wake up with mistyrecollections and the overwhelming thought:i wish it could be like this.jungles with ancient
2013: The B-Sidesjanuary 1, 2013whalesongslet's talk about whales.there is a lot of poetry in a whale--its deep,looming calm.i like to thinkthat whales find peace in the depths,in the abyssal darkness that,to them,doesn't choke so much as itcradles.january 6, 2013dreaming of kerouaci want this to be delirious.i want to pull the words out from my spineslicksmooth like electrical wires--i want the vertigothe headrushthe clawing at the tileson the bathroom sink.becauseisn't this supposed to bemaddening--strung up and strungout,walking taut tightropesand hoping for some literarysalvation?january 7, 2013mexico songsound carries a long waythrough sleeping deserts.three miles off,truck-radio karaoke is tinged withcervezas and overexuberance.dogs bark,roosters protest,water trucks blare their sirens--ice cream vansfor the old and boring.our national language is yelling. locating callsare met with answering callsand somewhere a pack comes together,
christmas is not only in decemberyou sleep through so much sunthat it is the moonwho rises for you.starchild,born in the russian springtimewith cyrillic letters on your tongue,you are endless.you are a ring,curved to infinityaround me.your hands belong in mine,or else on my hips.curve me into the shapeof an s,narrow me in the centreto give room to your arms-they belong around me.dearest dear,lovest love,you are a gift;when i fall asleepon the opposite edge of the bed from youand wake curled to your chest,it is christmas every time.
1,001 NightsIn a land ofdreams and dust:the curve ofa half-hazed sun,devoured.
things you don't learn in schoolI found a cricketon the roadside, put itin a mason jar to show the worldand called it by a first name.He died of loneliness shortlythereafter and i learned how wretchedit is to be forsaken.When I was twelve, I watched a boyslit his wrists with a plastic sporkat lunch, and though Ilaughed at the irony, all i kept thinking was"I really hope he washed his hands."He bled tearsof scarlet red that lookedjust like tomato sauce, but I just stoodthere because it was the coolest thingI'd ever seen.The boy, he smelled of dirtylaundry and cigarettes and sorrowand used to sit by the windowuntil the bell, where he'd wait until everyonehad gone outside to make sure it was safe.His eyes were the hollowed ringsof Saturn, with freckleslike stars & cosmic bruisesup and down his arms.If he spoke, it was of distant shores and escape,and we believed itwhen he talked of things like freedom,hearing the scratch of gravelroads from within his throat.I realized one day that I'd nev
lovely flying stinging thingswasp to the face, and lo!religious fervor!oh my hell holy jesus christmy god what the hell!insufficient litanies.divine wrathdid not spark forth like sacred lightningupon the offendinghymenopterid.
summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you? i. summergirl,you are crowthroated and tumblingthrough the aspen grovehair on fire with sunrise, lungsfull of sky.eyelashes like wildflowersand every morning bringsa new spray of frecklesand a sharper curve to your collarbones.the cornfields hold no shadowsfor your lighthouse eyesand there are no endings in thatsurefooted smile. ii. you have grownso fast.autumn finds you with broken anklesleaning on an oak branchand watching the skies.crow to sparrow--you are quiet.summergirl, there is peace in silence,perched treetop,fallen antlers in your hands.you will come to mourn your deer.keep them close. iii. by winter you have paled,and like the streams your eyes have frosted over.you feel the chill--there is no need for sight.summergirl, th
suffocation keepthis city suffocates so we don'tspeak.no, at bestwe sing in sign language:the hushed glances, the solidityof shoulder bladesand judgments--the smotheredeyes.hey.listener--let's go.let's leave the choking crowdsand chase out somewherewhere the wind blowswide and rich--where the knotted songs in yourthroatunravel.somewhereto take these beartrap ribsand let usbreathe.
A Call to Conversation (23)--:devdisrhythmic:Welcome to the 23rd article focusing on featuring and getting to know the deviants behind the work! This series will be posted every Wednesday. If you have a deviant you'd like to see included, please send =TwilightPoetess a note with the subject "Call to Conversation"--make sure to include the deviant's name as well as a reason you think they'd make a good interview subject! Also, feel free to send along a question or two you'd like to have answered by them!This week's featured deviant is disrhythmic!One of those deviants that EVERYONE should know, disrhythmic's pieces keep readers enthralled throughout. With a beautiful ear for imagery and a way of lulling readers into a false sense of security before ripping the rug from beneath them, her gallery is sure to keep you returning for more, so definitely check out her stuff! You won't be disappointed!-----So, first--do
in which my dreams decided to be Twilight.you come to from lack of oxygen, as wrong as that is. reflexively, you tilt your face to the side, away from the clinging cotton of the pillowcase. you hurt in too many places to catalogue. he is a warm weight, shifting ceaselessly, pressing kisses into the curve of your spine and murmuring soft russian between broken inhales. pleas, apologies. prayers.opening your eyes takes more effort than it should, and you are greeted with blossoms and constellations of blood on the pillow, the sheets. your voice, when you manage it, sounds as ragged as you feel. 'dmitri.'his fingers clench into the mattress on either side of you, and you feel him trembling against your back. he rasps your name in return, call and reponse. 'katrina.'you heave up onto one elbow and turn to face him. it hurts--every half-healed bite splits open again, and the wash of scent hits him like a bullet. he clutches at you, burying his face in the bloody crook of your shoulder.'shh, shh.' you stretch your hands up
letter to a little me1. these are the anniversaries that will stay with you,for better or worse:september twelfthjanuary twenty-fifthaugust fourteenthdecember twentieththings go up in december, as if the coming of a new yeargives the old one a kick in the pants.look forward to decembers.time likes to tie weights to your collarbones with silk ribbons.right now i am two years into a subdued grief,five years into a wild regret. but don't be scared;just as many feathers balance out the iron.i am three years into something trulywonderful.2. you will get better. the words on the page will eventually come a bit closer to the pictures in your head.by the way, you think in pictures--you don't see that now,but look for it. use it to your advantage.stop with the heavy moralizing. you try too hard.you will abandon false modesty and snobbishness,as you will find out that they are not attractive qualities.you will, however, trade them in for navelgazingand perhaps a bit of haughtiness and pre
tutorialtake an evening -reclassify emotions as chemical compounds.remove one atom,see what changes.take your field notes, transcribe themback to front.add line breaks.be scientific. be too scientific.replace the word 'entropy'with the word 'god'.be so full of want that you can feel itscraping its numb jaws against your insides.write about flowers instead.make your first line provocative.follow it, let it unfurl -ctrl a.del.inauthentic, try again.ctrl z.who the fuckwants authenticity?read, find inspiration.find new ways to plagiarize old ideas.stop reading.hash and rehash,slash and burn.look at the mess you've made.add punctuationas decoration.spend an hour flicking back and forth -capitalization.uncapitalization.write about family. if it hurts too little,write about flowers instead.use a word bank.cuss,kiss,switch,hit,shock,shatter,fade.write in the dark.write from within your own skull.write drunk.write your litanies.write your lines.write your
That Girl was MeThe girl with blood on her pillow Because at night, her monsters won't leave her mind alone So she tears At the never healing scars The girl with burn tracks down her face Tears just weren't enough They couldn't show the loss, the emotionSo, this was her way of showing her pain The girl with wire sewn lips Because the world showed her Her pleading words will never change a thing She has no power to help anyone, so why let her try The girl that has blackened feet Bruises from walking a million miles Following closely behind someone Only to realize they were a mirage in a twisted world The girl with a bottle of pain killers in her shaking hands Waiting to numb the pain Looking for the final reason To leave her private world of pain behind The girl with a frown painted over her fake smile Trying everything to make you see That she's not all right&
when a muse stands silentdo you know what a feather is?a whimsical quill,drooped at the toplike a willow tree's brancheshang their heads.the ink at the tip,a tear on the corner of an eyesmudging a porcelain face,a writer wiping it away with his thumb,the rest of his fingerscupping a chin,and he chokes out whispers that embracehis broken muse.
appreciating artstepping into a pubclicked black stiletto girlcoat ruffled up to her earssaid she came in on a reindeerhe wants to take her to the theatre.he wants to rub her skyscraper legs with his poshpocket cane in the noise of a standing ovation--sir, you are the star; she loves you. she really loves you.she wants to decay in the bottom of his glass.she wants to shut the curtains behind her as he grins.she wants to lick his yellow teeth till they are marble white.she wants to be ruins for tourists--ruins for tourists? ruins for remembrance, art for the knowing eyemona lisa, they love you; they really love you.
spilled milki am a girl with without feelingsthe type with ccrossed legs and closed eyelidsthe type with i don't knows written acrossher lips and spines and collars crooked withthe weight of love across her backi don't knowi am a repetitivve being who can't speakwithout stutters or write withhout petty kkinks.but i have shudders in my pupils and cringingin the back of my throat when i close my eyesto you, you-the ugliest thing who can't let me write a wordwithout acid. without tickling in the back of my stomachwithout the cramps in my chest, the slaps to my heartpeople tend to call butterfliesthough i beg to differ because butterflies aren'tsupposed to fucking hurt.so i'll just call them hammers and nails.not the types of hammers with a metal crook,but the type with flesh covering it, skin-not the types of nails with rusted silver-but the type with dirty, disgusting contortsthat don't penetrate but scrape my own skin.i'd say i want mr. perfectbut not even god dates that wel
.she wants to taste the moonbetween forefinger and thumb sheplucks it from the sky, and likesome great pearly gobstopperrolls it over her tongue,licks the dust from herlips,shuts her eyesand smiles
Dance with the DevilStep into the circleand dance with the Devilin the song that never ends.Let him take your pain away,think of nothing more than this momentand dance.Come dance with him in the circleand forget all your troublesthey won't matter anymore.He just asks for that simple priceI'm sure that you already know.Come dance with the devil darlinghe'll take all your woes away.Swing in the circleto the beat that never ends.Once you take that stepand enter the dance with the Devilyou'll never leave it again.Sell your souland dance that eternal danceDance with the Devilto music's soft embrace.Sing along with the song that never endsand just give your soul away.Nothing shall matter anymoreas you dance with the Devil tonight.
Never AgainNever again will she see his face againThe memory of him resisting to fadeNever again will she laugh againHer eyes hide all the painNever again will her heart be able to trustThe wounds refusing to healWith her broken wingsShe can never fly again,Never again will she be able to soar through the sky and let her imagination take her to the places she pleaded forShe is stuck on the ground in the nightmaresScreaming, shouting, crying...Drowning in her own miseryNever again will her faith be the sameGive her something to believe inShe'll show you why it's not worth fighting forNever again... She promisedShe promised herselfNever again will she fall for him again...But eventually she did..She fell soo hard..Never again will she be able to stand up againAnd never again will she be the one she used to be
The TruthsWhen you look at me, what do you see?Seeing that smile, could you guess what I hold back?Hearing that laugh, could you sense the pain?When we talk, can you tell that I leave so much out?When I say I am fine,do you know what is behind that?Is it just me, or do you miss alot?When you really look at me , Do you really see me?Do you even know that there is so much you don't see?I can tell you what you seeA girl that isn't really there anymoreA hollow shellThat if you were to put under pressureWould be gone in an instantThat is why she has so much protectionsWhy there is alway people around herOF course you don't see what she is holding backYou hardly know that girlOr, at least not the one that the rest of the world doesThe funny thing is, she doesn't want you toShe feels if you see the scars you would walk away toEven though when that laugh sounds you can tell something is offYou will never call her on itYou shouldn't ask questions if you aren't ready for the answers
airstream drivervolkswagen van, teal and batteredbut ours--let's chase that sunrise.boots on the dashboardwe'll make thisbetter than any nouveau vintagehipster polaroid--playlist blaringcamera rollingand no destination in mindexcept forward.