[x]

and yeahwe broke ourselves on the edge of dawn,
bottles and bottles and a small smoking pile of cigarette ash
you said sleep is for the weak

you said a lot of things are for the weak.

and yeah
the girl in the boy's underwear told you were being selfish
and she told you to get a grip

and yeah
maybe it was a bit mean,
but i think she had a point

characterisationa pinch
and snort

he's sorry he doesn't talk to you any more, that he's let the wolf in his chest stir and rise from the long winter sleep
behind everything he breathes a sense of remorse
under everything he exhales guilt--
far under.

he's little fingernails scraping up the insides of his lungs like the insides of a pumpkin on halloween
he's cigarette smoke between cracked lips

he's the coldest desert dweller you've ever seen,
the shadow of a dune,
a long-limbed, white-skinned
traveler.

ode to an imaginary friendyou came like an old friend,
watching,
waiting

thought i'd forgotten you, whirlwind black-eyed lonely child
tears in your eyes music in your soul space between your
ribs

warm in mornings, soft in nights
a feather bed for your troubles
plaid sleeping bags for the nights you can't bring yourself to lie down on the couch in the stuffed-up air between my arms

long live glory, long live night,
long live popcorn and hot chocolate and blankets and radiators
and a spot in front of the fireplace when the pilot light goes out

white-twig fingers child,
breath in winters
breath in chairs

breath in hallways, under stairs

and you in the we

other people's heartbreakfifteen year old father,
and he can't uncrumple the dollar bills for the automatic teller machine
where the bamboo walls

girls veiled in smoke,
thin-strap tank tops
the click and hiss of a soda can

she miscarries in the basement on a hot summer night,
the dregs of her uncle's offspring draining from her in hemorrhagic spurts,
her fingers bruising on the unsheeted mattress

mom and pop wake to a phone call from the county coroner
he is blue from the lake water and green from the nausea

and grandma knits afghans, over
and over
and
over

it arrivedimpale yourself on your own damn words,
drive the pen like an angry lover

rub cream on your knees where the purple-blossom bruises grow
make a bet on the number of tequila shots you can down before passing out

wake with your head in the toilet,
perfectly clean

a santitized breakdown when all you wanted was some good old-fashioned alley dumpster dirt.

countingshit
shit, I

two fifths of vodka for the crowd
a pair of crystalline relationships evolving:
the one descending and the other rising

things are going to come to a head

I can't do anything for your third suicidal crisis but sit and tell you you're beautiful from far away
I can't do nothing for you

climbing my own ladder, I can't do--

shit,
shit I

those hips

don't stop, pleasedead
headache

did you know you're comatose?

fresh fruit brain rotting to deathly peaches, apple worms
concussion is easy when you're newborn, pliable
now, not so much

you ate every single everything bagel in the box,
even the holes.

ifi cannot sleep.

dark mauve flowers blooming in my brain,
a slow time-lapsed bouquet of anxious muse-y wonderings
what this?
if that?

sick-hot caterpillar rolling like a log in a river dam at high water fish drowning
go

when you touch me dry in the morning to the sound of birds when the sun's barely rising
i unfold and lie all over again.

needlesyou were
hypertension and a bad case of angina:
inexplicable, meaningless without context

you were anxiety, heart attack, diagnosis
a surgical incision one and a half inches long
medical claws bordering calipers

you were a lactose-free milkshake seeping through my bowels like a bad dose of barium

you were lustless kisses on a dry-skinned cheek,
hot dank breath in a cool clean place

you were one-millimeter fingernails and the sound of the saw

you were needles.

the desk chairlittle backwards
torrential heart-rain
fibrillation
dance,

you fell into me, lord,
you fell onto me and my long-fingered last-ditch chance at succession
dominion

the matte plastic face i'd been keeping for just this moment held,
mostly,
held less a few cracks around the edges and eyebrows

you

a carelessly dropped spoon

teenage lover's lamentI wish we were adults
so that you could come over
and sit and watch as I did boring paperwork for my boring job

So that you could microwave yourself dinner
from the leftovers in my fridge

So that we could make love without hurry
and you could spend the night.

love poem at 30,000 feetmy loneliness an object,
a teacup or a teakettle
you

are my lodestone,
my magnet-
ite,

my
100 meters left of true north

my

soul ecto-string spooling out behind me
30,000 feet up
and the albumin-sea-jellies dragging their way across the mashed-potato sky

cold,
i am clad but feeling
numb-brained white-noise engines
organized turbulence unchaos

you are my lodestone,
my magnetite,
and i'm making my way across the sky

easter sundayone rises and another falls.
one thousand nine hundred and eighty-five resurrections since the birth of christ
and self-centered anxiety in a copernican universe,
heliocentric panic disorder

& it was knuckles
and ankles
and knees

and i couldn't look you in the eye

you write a lot of letters to god for an atheist.

plumbumshe has a heart of gold
and she, a heart of lead
and she, a heart of uranium.

and they go walking sometimes, the three of them.

gold is confident in her worth,
untarnishable
bought and sold and bought and sold
the virgin whore

and lead behind,
heart heavy in her chest
guilt from bullets
and pride from pipes
and anxiety from irreparable brain damage

and somewhere off to the side treads uranium,
tumors growing,
white skin glowing,
thin frame for a dense core.

rapunzel, rapunzeli wanted to cut her open and see what her insides looked like, all beating simultaneously and vigorously, all frothing with life.
i think what made me want her the most was her hair. sometimes dirty, sometimes gold. but always silk. i watched it tag behind her that one sunday, like the sun, as she rode her bicycle past my house on speedy wheels.
good morning, Mr.Kettle.
i did not see more than a flash of Caroline Wise, but it was all i needed to make her my next. my chair called for her name; the chains hung with the remains of the old. i patted their cries and promised not too long.
---
the coming summer months brought a breeze of staying at home alone and TV time for Mr. Kettle. Mrs. Wise would leave the house at exactly nine o'clock every morning, i made sure of it, and i watched as Caroline watched the the telly and played silly games on the laptop. sometimes she would take to the pool, and she and her little structure would slip out in her shiny two-piece suit, swayi

Browse More Like This

Download File
TXT, 741 bytes more ▶

More from ~consolecadet

hipster chant with acoustic guitar accompanimentall i can think is campfires
and the moon, you know?
all i can think is the moon
the moon and the wind like fingers in the trees

all i can think is i ran away this one time,
all alone on the beach with the crabs and the broken zipper
and the strange boy who lives in my head sometimes
and the acoustic guitar
and the wind in the trees like fingers

and

god,
all i can think is i'm alone
and i'm alone like white light on rocks
and i'm alone like damp in lunar dust
in far-off craters

and all i can think is,
god,
i'm something like a story for girls in scarves.

love like raisinslittle bitch
itch itch itch

god, you
are beautiful like the sun
and all the ugly cliches

you are beautiful like girls in songs by the Cars

god,
all i want is to peel your skin off like sheer pantyhose
all i want is to get at the clementine-sticky ants underneath
all i

you are a bad scab.

the long weekendpatriot's day, wait
you will be nothing in contrast to the three-week,
two-day weekend of the twenty-fifth.

sunday ate saturday night like a dripping submarine sandwich,
anxious mayonnaise on its lips
suicidal lettuce caught between its teeth.

can't i just pick you up and carry you home?
can't we go nameless hotel lobby for a while?
can't i hold your hand?

can't we untie tapeworm ribbons sliding between my ribs through my lungs like a bad-day walk-in-the-dark phone call?

i swear i can hear your fingernails go tak-tak-tak against the bedframe
and the cellular
and the wall

can't we just

i don't know

forever present tenseall i am is a series of moments,
moments,
moments,
mo-
ments

all i believe is i'm alive and all i believe is:
i'm alive and all i believe is i'm
all i believe is
all i
all

you

every breath a star
every breath
every

you

you

you

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

#Writers--club
A group for all writers!

#write-to-live
Literature is Emotions

#WriterArt
Where Writers Find Writing

#We-Write-To-Escape
To write is to escape

Details

Submitted: February 13, 2012
File Size: 741 bytes

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 12
Favourites: 36 [who?]
Views: 514 (0 today)
Downloads: 9 (0 today)

[x]

sonnet 130

by ~consolecadet, Feb 13, 2012, 7:51:25 PM
Literature / Poetry / Romantic / Teen / Free Verse

truth is,
darling,
i could live without you.

i could live without your face, your hair
but lines i dragged out fingers would dry and crumble:
wires and rust-chunks;
words' depth absent.

i could sleep without you every night,
but what bare scraps of rest unfurl today would evaporate tomorrow;
Morpheus could go before you in dreams,
but every particolor swirl of breath
would lack the vividness of yours.

i could live without your thoughts, yes,
but my own would be the worse for it.

i could live without you,
love,
but i wouldn't enjoy it much.

sonnet 130by ~consolecadet

Literature / Poetry / Romantic / Teen / Free Verse

for J
for tomorrow
not a sonnet
backwards-ly romantic

love poetry is not my strong suit, hence cues taken (hopefully non-plagiaristically) from good old bill.

this isn't the first time i've taken inspiration from this particular sonnet. it is one of my favorites, for whatever reason.

my mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
coral is far more red than her lips' red;
if snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
if hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

i have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
but no such roses see i in her cheeks
and in some perfumes is there more delight
than in the breath that from my mistress reeks

i love to hear her speak, yet well i know
that music hath a far more pleasing sound;
i grant i never saw a goddess go;
my mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground;

and yet, by heaven, i think my love as rare
as any she belied with false compare.

shakespeare acknowledges that no one is perfect, but also that no one needs to be. and that, my friends, is a timeless sentiment.

^{also please ignore the fact that i wouldn't dream at all if i wasn't getting any REM sleep
poetic license or something, right?}

~NamikazeH4 Mar 16, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

_{I really like the... message behind this. It's not the overly dramatic "Can't live without you bby". It stays on the normal range but manages to fly far beyond it.
Because you know, cliches has already lost their meaning.

Good job, I've been bracing myself to favourite pretty much all your works.}

~consolecadet Mar 16, 2012

thank you!

i don't write love poetry much, mostly because every love poem's already been written by someone at least once.

~NamikazeH4 Mar 16, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

_{I don't really read love poetries because they seem to over-glorify love/their love. I know that the name is LOVE poetry, but can we not make everything hyperbolic?
/rant rant

Love is love, it's not perfect, but that's what makes it worth saying.}