Listen to they way you fall, and you crash
with a little bit of something and a million lies.
You’ve told the same story of a frog and some mud
to the swamp that would listen as you wallowed in the dark.
Imagine this face, with bug eyes and webbed hands,
a semi-soothing sleep in the dark of the South.
There’s hanging moss and misplace modifiers
and the home you used to call comfortable.
Oh Biology and some never-free lunch.
It’s a backyard of past lives,
the frog and the toad — well wishes.
I am the queen of self sabotage,
tweezed hearts and heavy bangles, a mess of knotted chain.
A little dish on my dresser and a glass shaped cat,
stored your heart and your heat once before.
Here’s the thing, little jaybird
there’s only so much in a word —
Eyes run deep in a north woods calm
and deep words run cheap if you say it right.
We’ll listen to Youtube bullshit
and I’ll sell it for cheap in the city.
There’s a travelling to be done, dizzy one,
I’ll do it without you again.
“I’ve forgotten how to trust myself,” she said. (A Stockholm Syndrome for the weak, an emotional Munchausen By Proxy. Or on the days that ended neatly, By Exhausted. With a family on the phone and some dark type, she was a spilled milk mess in the story book world some stranger on the internet had written.)
Lay in her bed with the books by the window and a little plant that’s cold and snapped. “Write me some passive verbs in the frost on the glass?” If you’re busy thinking about no one else, you’ll feel it. Let’s talk about ourselves and not feel bad after? None of us ask enough questions.
It’s raining uncertain in January and no one has read your writing. Even when they asked please please please.
There’s a pretty good chance I’m a complete nut job. Let’s write it off as charming, yes?
My body feels like the big bang. My ribs are stretching fast into the dark and my blind, crazy limbs can’t keep up. I’m swallowing sky and stars, gulping puddled galaxy and spilled milk. In the night I worry I annoy everyone. I’m digesting my million celestial questions, but they’re getting snagged on the way down, tangled in the parts my blood’s stuck it. I am the seven sisters and we’re all safety-pinning holes in the night, letting light in where it should be silent. Only one planet’s not named after a deity, it’s this one.
My heart’s heavy
They never teach you how to be away from the person you love.
My blood is heaving, sinking hard into my five dollar beer,
I miss the weight and loathe the wait and my sheets are still.
You sang your heart and I’m crying sneaky tears all over again.
There are sweet lights and a set of antlers that you’d love —
A drink named for a tree and the feeling of simple sounds.
Shake it off, come near and stare clear. It’s for two.
In the dark, quiet night, this feels like panning for gold in a glitter-less city where dreams fall asleep and the wind’s dry — where the boys don’t care and the girls cry sugar and they’ve just sold the last synonym for ‘status quo.’ So they laugh about old arms, drink ‘til the room spins and sail home on a cigarette.
There’s a sneaky place between frustrated and angry that burns like a match tossed out before it’s out. It’s melting and not in the pretty way. Not in the way that you could record slowly and leave in a museum — not in the way that anyone finds beautiful. It comes quickly with the dragging on and the foggy lines. It’s a “well done you!” with biting satire. It’s a leave-me-be and kiss-me-deep and let-me-free! It’s a spinning unruly beneath a pressed shirt and a wandering that would be better off lost. Seems it would be better off lost.
“Smoke in this non-smoking room,” she said. ‘I double dare you,’ she meant.
You’d think for a second it would lie quiet.You’d hope for a second it’d lie silent.
Un-spelled and un-quelled. Un-real and un-real and rhyming dictionary of ‘what I feel.”
Goddamn how does this keep misting, oh god how it all keeps listening.
On the wildest of days, parted hair feels like fire. Listen neat shoes, I don’t want you around. Ruffled and rumpused and trampled about, this is both the end and the mother fucking beginning.
The source of this is a babbling, silly one. Hah, I barely believe still waters run deep. They run dark, that’s for sure. They run dark. Dark eyes and dark eyes and a headband lit with a match.
That man designed the most beautiful thermostat, did you see it? He’s burning the world warm with a beautiful thing we try to hide on an empty wall.
God, what a passion is that! Such an enviable fucking passion is that.
Do you think if we floated away for a bit no one would notice.
Something of a sweet song and a warm, milky tea — it’s the wonderings of things.
Stone A and a quiet italic, leave a little for me this time round?
Laundry room spin and a quiet room.
Red bulbed blitz when you spoke to soon.
Listen deep-eyed one, slip on your shoes.
Crush some velvet and sink into a dark and stormy.