the smell of cyanide in the morning. by vvlpes, literature
Literature
the smell of cyanide in the morning.
.
he was someone
with
thin-boned fists
and
thick muscle
in his chest.
f r a g i l e ,
yet strong and healthy,
he was the
s i l e n c e
of a synagogue,
sacred and still.
until one day
he went
missing.
the locks smashed,
dusty boot prints
walking themselves
up and down
his floors.
(rabbi)t's breath lungs perched in a dove's rib cage,
he was peace on a battlefield,
an unwelcome guest,
killed with the olive > branch > he
carried.
.
countless skeletons
passing down a staircase
they'll never walk up again.
it's
only
down,
down,
down
for
them
from
now
o
a good way to start by BipolarBearDisorder, literature
Literature
a good way to start
it's cold here,
you know?
it really shouldn't be a surprise to me,
considering all of the snow that has
piled up in the last few hours.
it's hard to keep time when
all i've got to go by is
how long ago i've felt it's been since
the streetlights turned on for the night.
it's freezing but i find myself comfortable enough,
the stinging pain on the tip of my nose and ears
a not-so-gentle yet comforting reminder
that there's still some life in me yet,
despite how the previous year's been to me.
perhaps i'll continue sitting here,
in the cold, alone,
contemplating
and contemplating some more.
just make sure to remind me to head back in
before it g
the hotel rooms we haunt
are filled with frenetic energy;
i suppose that's why
the television is on fire
and we are sleeping
in the flowerbeds.
we lie in the stillness
after the lights have all gone out,
blood rushing in our ears
(he still believes
that it's the ocean you hear
inside a shell)
and the air is thick with the scent
of gasoline in the heat:
i ask him what he loves about me:
"your hips," he says,
"your hips roll like the sea,
and all i can do is ride the waves."
Sunset. The Texas sky was a royal shade of lilac fringed with burnt orange and various blues. The treeline had faded into one long, jagged shadow forming a hazy fence around the empty highway. A harvest moon had just cleared the top of the pines - a beautiful moon, sure, but small; it might have been the size of a nickel, but was probably closer to a dime. The moon never gets as big for us as it does for the movies.
I was leaning against my beat-up old Dodge minivan in a deserted convenience store parking lot, staring idly into the twilit sky; I probably looked creepier than a bruised-up runaway with a knife and a grin and detailed opinions
You dreamed me.
A breath in crescent pulses
suddenly I am
existing in your pillowed fantasies
tucked beneath heavy eyelids.
Soft, willing
moon flesh
there is magic in your bones.
Vulnerable, we
remained entwined
carried by the night tide
imperfect
I am yours.
-D.E.M
i.
In my dream Grandpa My stands in the veranda
across from my apartment—as always, in the shade,
and his linen shirt shows no perspiration from the heat.
I believe we are in dry Madrid where I have not been
for years. He has been dead twice as long, yet here he is:
no death mask and his smile calm. Grandpa! I call.
From my window our eyes meet. Grandpa! It's me!
He remains smiling, but won't return my wave.
ii.
In the next dream Grandma Suzy comes to visit,
maneuvers herself through the door of my Piso.
Grandma, I say, hurry! Grandpa's here.
She gives a girlish laugh and comes to my window.
She is seventeen, as she was in Chicago
A Run-On Sentence About Staying Where You Are by vigour-mortis, literature
Literature
A Run-On Sentence About Staying Where You Are
In a halo of messy hair
and metal shavings everywhere
my thoughts return to you
and what I would do
if we were less constricted,
if we were less restricted,
by the paths we've chosen
that leave us almost frozen
in warm beds
with full heads,
busy days
set in our ways
and complacent
with energy spent
on getting by,
forgetting why
we are even here
and it becomes clear
that things just are
the way they are
and it doesn't matter that you make me nervous,
that the only time my thoughts find purchase
is when they return to you
and what I would do
if we were less constricted,
if we were less restricted.
I left my deconstructed self
in tidy piles on your still-warm bed sheets,
not a bone out of place;
every piece of me sorted and stamped
so at least you’d see
what you were getting yourself into.
You gave me your fingernails;
the stardust beneath them
leaving gritty, sparkling trails on my palms
that made my hands tingle:
half panic, half desire.
I sometimes wondered how we’d fit together;
both of us quiet and awkward and luminous,
collecting kindling like belly button lint
in all our empty spaces,
just waiting to start ourselves on fire.
I hope you find a safe place to shine.