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January 16, 2013
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Sta.sh Writer
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New stuff up on the Elocutionists blog! :heart:

:new:
Name That BabyI'm gonna lay it on the table
Do the tell
Get the spelling right
Tight.
Got called "depressed"
Took it up to "manic"
Bipolar in the head
And they said --
"Make it longer,
Schizo-affective
Bipolar tendencies"
New dependency
On taking pills,
To flatten my hills
Knock out the frills,
I got double-damned.
'Cause a this shit --
Father dies in a pool
Mother dies too,
In love with a fool
Mother let days pass,
No food or water
How did she last?
I closed her eyes,
They felt alive,
Like little butterflies.
Hector also dies,
Left alone by
The very unwise,
Young white cats
Die like that.
Stepmother dies
Spat out with
All the cancer-dead
She too went back.
And nothing stopped.
I saw them all
Saw them all day,
Figments, fragments
Called "delusions"
Earthquake, fire
Blood and flood
Not from me
Not my feed
Just these -- "things."
Small cold voices
In my ear
Hissed admonitions
None could hear.
Little people sat
And they stood
And they spun,
In colorful fun
They had their run,
Nearl

Whale Songs of the PacificListen, the girls swallowed by whales are the ones that grow up lucky.
Listen, no one will warn you about the little boys with the magpie eyes and the fists swinging splinters of glass. No one will warn you that their smiles are sweeter than their words are sweeter than their souls are sweeter than their intentions. No one will warn you of the sheer weight of the world.
Listen, sometimes girls are fragile. Sometimes girls are frothy. Sometimes girls let boys nuzzle "I love you"s into their necks and sometimes girls drink the wine of believing them.
Listen, sometimes the boys really are sweet, and little girls' tart puckered mouths can't taste the difference.
Listen, writers are the ones that drip fishhooks down their throats to coax out their hearts. Writers are the ones who fling those heart-hooks into the sea even if they have a message but not a bottle. Listen, sometimes fish swallow them. Some of those fish sink to the bottom of the ocean with the weight of the world in those heart


expired warningsI hate to break it to you but we're all betting on the day when
your nightmares will swallow you whole and you won't
remember how to open your eyes. we forget your voice,
it broke and no one buried the pieces. we're giving you up:
secessions (your ribcage is a civil war, your heart is the victim.
there will be no memorial; there are only red flags)
obsessions pick your bones dry, vulture needs, vulgar
mortality argues at least you're not alive
at least you can't see us anymore, counting the knots
in your neck and catastrophes in your mouth. in
your summer cage you were a soggy butterfly bearing
a cumbersome cross. now, we leave you naked and
seizuring on winter's doorstep as the little lamb who
never loved enough.
they haven't paid you for the dreams you pawned years ago
in exchange for a little sleep, no, they tied more rocks to your
ankles and begged you to fly - they said they traded your
misformed hopes for something a bit more fitting, a solid
dose of reality with a hint of self-h



The Prince's Last WifeIt must be confusing
to lie down every night
not sure if you were going to be with
the man or the bear.
Sure, he's always been a man by night,
but then he's a bear by day,
with those big, sad, polar eyes,
still trying to control his massive limbs
like he's the master of his own destiny.
And yet you find those white hairs
on your good clean sheets,
on your silk pajamas,
mingled in your morning tea,
which is always waiting,
hot and steaming,
despite the fact he can't carry it in his paws.
And he watches you dressing yourself,
pulling on layer after layer, wool and wire,
because he shoots the cold
right through you,
with a nuzzle of his nose.
And he never has to dress, though at night
you can feel his skin,
and the goosebumps that line his humanity.
It must be confusing,
to lie there at night,
hoping he'll be the bear,
coming to eat you alive.



red leaves and Robert Frost.When I was young, my virginity was sacred. Entire religions pray over it and my father bought a gun so long as it meant protecting it.
We throw away half of our refrigerator each week – meanwhile, 24,000 people die of starvation every day.
Hardest part is, sometimes wasting things can't be helped.
At the bus stop, before I could drive, boys would ask for my phone number while I tugged up the neck of my shirt. Asked me how old I was while I crossed my legs under my skirt.
I told them I had a boyfriend even when it wasn't true, because they'll always respect another man more than my disinterest.
Hearing "I love you" for the first time is like getting hit by a train and only feeling the angel as they pull you up to Heaven.
People who are manic can jump off roofs or sell their house to buyers who don't exist.
For me, it was fucking six guys in four days and spending $150 in three.
That wasn't good enough, though, so instead of help all I got was a smiley-face sticker and long, quiet c


PlowIt's finally snowing again,
blankets of peace falling
with a freshness that lacks innocence.
Nearly forgotten, they're here as expected,
clearing the streets,
trying to push aside all the worry
that makes things unsafe, but
the steel mouth askew grates against my heart;
its thick bass scrape pushing more than piles of white aside,
it pushes my blood aside too,
piling it up in the corner of this pumping vessel that falters,
ice-caked and bitten, stiffened,
and keeps faltering,
again,
and again,
and again,
until the air is silent
and the street no longer shivers in torture.
The only evidence is the blanket of white
that keeps falling,
like fluffy stuffing that's been yanked out.
All is silent,
except the fond memories that peel away
from my heart in little shreds,
and the plows, scraping fresh wounds again.
--
1/20/2012, 1/22/2012
Copyright 2012 Jen Fowler
All Rights Reserved




Edit: And in a bit of shameless self-promotion, here's some recent additions to my personal Tumblr. :)

Reading

stolen dog-eared mapsAudio version. :heart:
we will run
directionless but on
until the sky recedes before us.
we will outlast the horizons
sink teeth into every sunset
until we chase
what chases us--
until the oceans below hold no demons
the galaxies above
no shadows.
we will lose ourselves
to frantic
fleeting space
until there is nothing left of us but
souls and
destinations.
Reading

Reading

Sta.sh really hates lit thumbs. Smoking
New readings up for #Elocutionists! :heart:
Add a Comment:
 
:iconxlntwtch:
xlntwtch Featured By Owner Jan 19, 2013   Writer
"Smokin'!" Looks great -- and we get a :new: badge-on-baby today. Awww. Thanks (for the gazillionth time).
Reply
:icondisrhythmic:
disrhythmic Featured By Owner Jan 19, 2013
:heart:
Reply
:iconxlntwtch:
xlntwtch Featured By Owner Jan 20, 2013   Writer
:tighthug:
Reply
:icondrippingwords:
DrippingWords Featured By Owner Jan 19, 2013  Student Writer
Haha, I love the zig zaggy layout :D
Reply
:icondisrhythmic:
disrhythmic Featured By Owner Jan 19, 2013
:D
Reply
:icon0hgravity:
0hgravity Featured By Owner Jan 17, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
ah, you read suffocation keep! I forgot to ask.
it's beautiful. I love your readings so much.
Reply
:icondisrhythmic:
disrhythmic Featured By Owner Jan 19, 2013
Thank you! :heart:
Reply
:iconintricately-ordinary:
intricately-ordinary Featured By Owner Jan 16, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
do you ever stop being so fantastic? :la: goodness.
Reply
:icondisrhythmic:
disrhythmic Featured By Owner Jan 17, 2013
:tighthug:
Reply
:iconxlntwtch:
xlntwtch Featured By Owner Jan 16, 2013   Writer
Oh, this is absolutely marvelous! I love hearing these poems aloud.

Who will dare to read Name That Baby for me? Beth? Nic? Anyone?

You did a great layout, too, *disrhythmic

PS. Since my username has no vowels, I'll tell you it mean "excellent watch." ;)
Will someone read for me? I have no computer-way to read it myself or I would.
Reply
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