[x]

Liquid Cityhere, at the bottom - lovers.
there are lovers disassembling
themselveslost in and to the
desperate motion in
of - waves.

- did you think the continents
moved themselves? see them slip,

in an open sleep. less go, come.
come and, and - again. trembling

here, at the bottom - their eyes
are lightless. hollow bodies left
restless,

the sea does not sleep.

cliffcliff
e.bojnowski

on velvet roads,
I impale a belated dawn
with my incisors and
shiver with perfect leaves-

I have no qualms
with the dark hills
that slope
and stagger into
a bed of scorched fly husks:

where
the thrum of the ground
melds
with the rapids in
my clairvoyant ears.

preludesi.
blue rose into the city backdrop
like balloons, a million for the
morning sun prelude.

ii.
i've not slept a dream
but i have cried a salty face
and letters spilled like beans
into my moleskine,
almost as virgin as i once was
with few stories between my covers.

iii.
the kettle's belly boils
like my head upon a pillow.

iv.
i am guilty for rarely finishing my tea
even when i use the small mugs;
pour, rinse, repeat.

v.
perhaps today i will play dead.

vi.
perched behind my blinds
it dawns on me that i am surrounded
by walled neighbours, strangers,
they're just preludes to lovers
the way i am always
prelude to the one.

la musica dulceheartbeats are psycho-
-somatic, dear;
the ocean has swallowed
me whole.

hay una guitarra bajo
mi almohada, y
sueño de música cuando
estoy solo.

you came here with
city smoke in your lungs,
and i
forgot to breathe.

tree, fiddler crabIt took days to hollow out the soft parts
of the trunk, dig out the tree-flesh and sap,
polish the raw wood so that when he sat,
there would be no splinters. He carved his name
into the side, like a blessing, a declaration
of good fortune, and stowed his forest inside.

despondenti.

"are you sleepy today?"
"yes."
"but you were sleepy yesterday."
"i know."

ii.

she stirs her pomegranate green-tea until it turns from clear to purple
setting it on her bedside table and climbing back into bed again.
her fingers follow the bluer-than-usual constellation veins on her wrists and down
to the freckle on her forearm and then the scar on the inside of her elbow
crossing the tendon as if it were crux.
and then she remembered that God hasn't been with her lately.

iii.

today is long and sunny but when she steps outside the humidity creaks her bones
and her skin starts to inflame.
she assumes that if getting the mail

the hungry look...the hungry look,

the wolves
weaving through
and around
the gully of your throat like wraiths,

we can feel you rusting, lost one;

i know that drainpipes and fenders
begin to crackle after winter wet

and that there’s a touch of snow
in all of us,

but no one,
no one could hold you as tightly as you do,
your whole body, bloodless in this arrest,

and if you will not let your fetters show
i will show you
there’s a place for going, and you haven’t gone there yet;

where quantum particles, once in contact, can retain a connection
even when separated

where you
wander up to a stranger
with your shirt inside-out
and say &lsq

relearning i. stardust scatters with the
direction of my pupils –
maybe secretly i am an
astrology teacher, waiting
for a sign to wink
happily at me.

ii. excuse the rambling
nature of forgotten question
marks, but tell me:
would you like to be the
object of handwritten clichés
would you like to whisper
secrets in my palm
and would you
like to be the possibility

iii. air brushes against my
skin like the torn petals
of a flower still standing.
[ hold your head up high, honey,
and tell tomorrow to wait just
a while,

iv. so you can figure out
the difference between
patience and having all the

The Nature of LungsThere's that
feeling
you get
when you
keep
breathing in and
are
so concerned with getting
air into
your lungs,
to fill them up
so fully
that
you'll never
need
to inhale again,
that you forget
about
breathing

out.

But when you do,
the emptiness feels
so
much better than all
the oxygen in the world
pressing out on that one
overcrowded lung.

WhitmanI am all that grows from me
and all that grows from me is sacred—
              my hair, dirty roots reaching towards sky,
fed by sky, shifted by its undulating currents
              my fingers, spiders, crescents, twigs,
gaunt, blunt, probing, inquisitive...prurient
              my ears, awkward conch shells jammed on as if by mistake,
rigid and ridged, elven,
innocent like unexplored caves for children to bound gaily into
resounding with echoed cheers of courage wanting
as if a dozen more children waited within, fearless guides;
              my nose, obdurate.
The reach of my eyes knows no bounds;
what walls are there to throw my body against?

Apologies to LaoEach day is its own microstep--
since I woke from my mother's womb,
I longed to mimic new words, trammel
the sound until it blossomed

like a newborn, and oh how I birthed
stories--told them how I wanted
the author's sacrosanct title
once I've grown. But growing meant

learning the practice of citizens
and their due contribution: beast-slaying
nature of please, thank you,
an apology: sincere

or not. Then there is time--the first
breath of nine, exhalation
of five, the suffocating mandate
of overtime. You grow used to it:

the cyclical disappearance of parents,
pervasive need of sleep, a home-
cooked meal's gradual transmogrific

The Cat on the PorchYou asked me why I do not believe in ghosts,
celestial at four in the morning.
It becomes the common hour,
not a biting static shock in the eye veins like I anticipated
but dangerously vogue and precious
like a real diamond ring or sapphires on your breast.
No wood pecking or oil teasing or misshapen duck bills bleating
just clay, but lighter, lightest
and bright
seductive and crestfallen.

They bled Peter and Pangloss over a river.
I was wearing white for the funeral
humming 'home', the matronly letters
soothe me
clotheshorses and moonlight,
Mayan jewellery in my cabinet
the mother tongue kissing my molars better

But then there

SolsticeOnce upon a time, when you were still sunlighthouses and shimmering existence wherever you were needed most, you found him. He was November, shaky on his first last legs, and you saw through the mind-twistings he feigned to the mind-twistings that were really there, knotted up in his dreams.

You were still birdsong then, and thunderstorms, and your bodyheat melted the frost claws that held him tight. You held onto him as his November deepened. When he howled, you howled with him, and the wind played with your voices and pressed the softness of your lungs against your cageribs—and then against each other's.

November became solstice, and

darwin's revengein the embryo of the city
in their cage
they paint their nails not
knowing

that the sun is watching
from his trap door
in the cloud ceiling where
whales can't swim but go

to dream
and drop down their weight in rain
not measured in pints
but lives overflowed

in lost archipelagos full
of automatic islands
that catch the eyes like needles
when viewed from further away

than the end of the world

moondust.we live in a world where our lungs are black and outlined with angry streaks of red. we plant diseases and destruction in the holes of our stomachs and watch them grow – they shoot up fast and clog up our throats with ashy leaves.

our fingernails are ripped, jagged edges digging into pale skin and leaving white hot lines in their wake. our wings are crumpled, feathers bent and pressing into the expanse of our backs – they're the weights on our shoulders, and there's no space left for anything else.

your tongue is cracked and so is mine. words no longer form, sounds no longer rise. dreams and wishes fall into the cracks as nig

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 1.2 KB more ▶

More from ~goose-fat

The narcissism of small differencesdon't look now -

the tie between psychotic breaks and melting bone
is strong, and love is an alien thing past the Emergency Exit sign,
where all things are scarcer, especially blush revving up the system
for making enemy eyes go missing.

the border between her sclera and iris
was weird.

lens distortion reinforces it:
the high-contrast smile of pity, or the sculpted glow
of an empty bowl of a face, pink skin as soft as clay,
where all the truth we need is held
in the slope of some smooth range of stagnant cells
inflamed with heavy water
circulated at needlepoint, soft as bones, fluorescent sense alight
with the infallibility of a stolen ch

yellowdust on my mouth, a flood of cinnabar
from a hive of wasps (drier
than the wind itself is some death-
veiled simulacrum of a girl

old, older, old - the red powder or pure
hue of sweat on the dreaming brow-
ridge of that statuette, gold, made
golden and stone-etched,

and those hollow sockets, and that mouth, so
strange in the limelight).

NaPoWriMo 8: OphiocorcydepsThere's some
thunder in the woods - there's lamp-light,
there's the first moon
swallowed by the sky, there's a blue egg
too soon counted, and then that angel's voice
hatches, leads
north - retreating, the unmasked thing
flies south and short of the swollen horizon.

NaPoWriMo 7: Swan BookThe story brought me down
to that forest of twin
black marks and fleeing larks,
where circles of feathers carved
in and in like rings in a tree
lay blood-red at dawn and bleeding
out to some rising syllable
from the throat of

two swollen heart-
shapes on the beat
between here
and nowhere,

their monster bent like a black
river coagulated with time
and swooping in ritual down
from the edge of the strain
in some musical throat,
over and over.

NaPoWriMo 3: Cultthe Taj Mahal
is cut open, a riot
of psychedelic macaroon-
forms in
dying
light.

you,
lead-addled, drugged
second-hand on
elusive genius, effectively
long
to pry open those
plaster crevices,
or
otherwise abuse

the daggers and stripes
of color
in the next room, all
as eager as
hypnagogic predators,
each one (proudly)
vivisected below
some medical trough
of
electric shadow or
light

outsourced
to the
ceiling,
from where the jumble
of forks
and edible palettes
and other
rich pleasures
imperceptibly tear
your attention away
from

each
drip
sudden
dot
or
dash

NaPoWriMo 2: Sandthe black sea
tilts
at the first feral scream
of the coast.

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

#CRLiterature
CR hub for Literature Community!

#Word-Of-Art
Beauty is in the words...

#All-Art-Wanted
Every ART accepted

Details

Submitted: November 1, 2012
File Size: 1.2 KB

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 44
Favourites: 105 [who?]
Views: 2,558 (2 today)
Downloads: 1,220 (0 today)

[x]

crystallophone

by ~goose-fat, Nov 1, 2012, 11:46:46 AM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

there is a punchcard sin
like a queen of spades smoldering in an alley.

Engine,
you hear how the gears churn,
singing faster than we did before
back when black magic dropped like a
pair of socks from the sky with supplies
taped to a note that said
(oh, look at you now)
'U.S.A.,
freedom.'

such a beautiful brain:
what
what girl
runs on gasoline?

have a gallon
or we can call it a balloon,
and a new pair of glasses
for your tapered eyes
(you peel the bark back on the logs,
darling,
but you're not sure what you see),
and life says,
either nail jello to a tree,
successfully,

or keep your
icicles hanging from the eaves,
caterpillars frolicking in the ashes,
your 'Sam, I still don't have your number,'
and your totaled passion:
someone to hang inside out with,
string you up like a steak with.

oh
what the hunger
it
it
is trying to tell me
my brain churns like butter,
my insides aflare, my chakras combusting,
my

crystallophoneby ~goose-fat

Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

the future

edit: A DD! Thank you to ^NicSwaner for featuring this, to *JakesExceptionfor suggesting it, and to everyone who added this to their favorites or left a comment! I'm almost walking on air

Daily Deviation

Given 2013-01-24

You can't say those opening lines are not catchy as Hell the suggester challenges. There's no denying that the rhythm and word-play- in this poem is on a level of its own. crystallophone is by ~goose-fat ( Suggested by *JakesException and Featured by ^NicSwaner )

love 2 2

~~joy 0 0~~

wow 1 1

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

*JakesException Apr 17, 2013

(Think you still owe me for this.)

~goose-fat Apr 20, 2013 Writer

Maybe.
Any ideas?

*JakesException Apr 20, 2013

Nope.

~Dozza88pwns Feb 25, 2013 Student Writer

Everytime I read this, the more times I want to come back and read it.

I hate on dA as soon as something is reminiscent of something not freshly posted, people ignore it!

<3 <3 so much love for this poem.

It rightly belongs in my one of a kind folder.

~goose-fat Feb 27, 2013 Writer

Thanks, and let me just say that I'm flattered to be in that folder xD
It's not totally invisible yet, thankfully. People still stop by every once in a while.
How could we get around that failing of dA? :>

~Dozza88pwns Feb 28, 2013 Student Writer

Well my best idea involves bacon rashers and no actual results. I'll come back to you on any ideas I have on how to bring a mass structural change to dA

This poem is not just in the folder.... *queue sappy music* ITS IN MY HEART <3

ohkay, apologies for that.

~goose-fat Mar 1, 2013 Writer

looool no apology required

...actually, I think your folder is doing the trick, because a couple of people have faved it since then.

~Dozza88pwns Mar 1, 2013 Student Writer

Really? Well I'll be damned.

~Karinta Feb 25, 2013 Student General Artist

I don't know what it's about, but I like it.

~goose-fat Feb 27, 2013 Writer

That's still good!

More from ~goose-fat

Featured in Groups:

Details

Statistics

crystallophone

crystallophoneby ~goose-fat

Daily Deviation

The Journal Portal

Polls

What is your preferred drawing software?

deviantART [dee·vee·un'nt·ART]

Keep in Touch!

Deviousness

Add Media

Style