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Literature Text
it takes much less to prove a life than i thought:
seven days in a darkened room chainsmoking
like i know what i'm doing,
box after box of wine, splitting headaches in the morning
(from sleep deprivation. i can handle my liquor in both hands),
the first chill of autumn.
everything before has been an excuse,
shutters to hide the existence of windows at all-- blinders
for the horse, so i could lead it to a poisoned well
without complaint. i told him it was vodka
and he gorged himself. in the morning
i brandished my newest whip to a sky grown strangely,
viscerally vivid, saluting the sun
before beating the corpse to shreds.
when my arms were tired i used my head.
i suppose eventually i will grow exhausted.
i felt the first promise of autumn in a frisson of breeze
at my back that dawn, and i remembered:
hope is the only thing truly capable of reincarnation,
as evidenced by the single branch of lemon-colored leaves
amid the clinging green of late summer,
lavender mist in the corner of my bedroom (and all the sensuality implied),
the sigh of a woman pleasured solely through vibrations
of my vocal cords.
she tells me hope flowers.
despite the rising scent of equestrian murder
in this desert my mind has formed,
despite the bite of my whip into my cracked palms
and so many gaping notebooks i cringe in apology to the trees:
despite yet another "accident" of which my cat just fled the scene
and the dishes in the sink,
i believe her.
seven days in a darkened room chainsmoking
like i know what i'm doing,
box after box of wine, splitting headaches in the morning
(from sleep deprivation. i can handle my liquor in both hands),
the first chill of autumn.
everything before has been an excuse,
shutters to hide the existence of windows at all-- blinders
for the horse, so i could lead it to a poisoned well
without complaint. i told him it was vodka
and he gorged himself. in the morning
i brandished my newest whip to a sky grown strangely,
viscerally vivid, saluting the sun
before beating the corpse to shreds.
when my arms were tired i used my head.
i suppose eventually i will grow exhausted.
i felt the first promise of autumn in a frisson of breeze
at my back that dawn, and i remembered:
hope is the only thing truly capable of reincarnation,
as evidenced by the single branch of lemon-colored leaves
amid the clinging green of late summer,
lavender mist in the corner of my bedroom (and all the sensuality implied),
the sigh of a woman pleasured solely through vibrations
of my vocal cords.
she tells me hope flowers.
despite the rising scent of equestrian murder
in this desert my mind has formed,
despite the bite of my whip into my cracked palms
and so many gaping notebooks i cringe in apology to the trees:
despite yet another "accident" of which my cat just fled the scene
and the dishes in the sink,
i believe her.
Literature
old wives' tale
opposites do not attract.
me, with my soft body
does not want your hard
hands, fists around my
throat.
bathtub sunk, i stay
at the bottom and
watch peach bubbles pop
on my skin. your needle-
nails puncture the
fruit of me. suck the
juice from me. water-
logged, i hop on my
left foot. tilt
to shake you from me.
you are vicious and
sharp. the Anger. i am candy
floss, gummy teeth. the Sadness.
you lick your fingers
clean of me
drop my clothes
on the pantry floor.
Literature
making meat
it is such a hallowed place
where my hunger is all the time
mixed-up in spirits
& soil
from which grass comes
so grand & green
to rise around
this rotting oak temple
Jerusalem beetles
will do everything
they ever do
inside of it
& on top of it
i will say a prayer
each time my arm comes down
may the universe take you home
it is the merging of iron and oxygen
which gives the weapon its age
&
which spatters my brow
dear bird
the hatchet remains
slightly sunken
in the temple roof
& stands there
all strange memories
& soft flesh
as the talon of an owl
yet it is my talon, see
&
Literature
What the Old Masters Were Alluding To
Leonardo Da Vinci
Studied hands, studied skulls,
Harriet Hosmer sculpted the clasp
of Elizabeth and Robert Browning.
Carvaggio painted them
Coming out of the darkness,
Adam reaching out to receive
life from his creator.
Antonio Canova, shaping Psyche
to revival by Cupid;
Isis, holding Nefertari’s hand
As she is granted eternity.
Delicate, desperate, reaching, grasping, begging.
Hands, in art.
My hand, in his.
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Comments17
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I really like the tone of this and the unexpected imagery/vocabulary makes it really fresh. Plus there is a clever use of non sequitur that kind of has a sort of structure/content meta-meaning with what I think you are saying. So these comments are mostly nitpicks and small things that if I had written it I might look at on an editing pass. I'm just gonna be real direct with them; it's just the way I look at writing when I'm editing. Doesn't mean I think it's bad, cuz I don't.
First stanza has a weird punctuation/linebreak/pause combo between "like i know what i'm doing, / box after box of wine..."
The flow here is strange for me but probably just a semicolon instead of comma would solve it for me or just throw a stanza break in there to make me not continue through the line with as much pace. Nitpicky, but it downshifted the rhythm. Also a nitpick, but "handle my liquor with both hands" was a bit hands-y. Euphonically speaking.
2nd stanza. Horse? Where he come from?
"lavender mist in the corner of my bedroom (and all the sensuality implied)," don't you dare touch this line because it's perfect
"she tells me hope flowers." or this one.
The cat accident kinda feels out of place in tone. The rest, while not necessarily concretely connected all maintains a surreal or poetic character. Cat "accidents" are hard to make poetic outside of limerick or deliberately humorous works.
Yeah. That's my thoughts, for whatever they are worth.
First stanza has a weird punctuation/linebreak/pause combo between "like i know what i'm doing, / box after box of wine..."
The flow here is strange for me but probably just a semicolon instead of comma would solve it for me or just throw a stanza break in there to make me not continue through the line with as much pace. Nitpicky, but it downshifted the rhythm. Also a nitpick, but "handle my liquor with both hands" was a bit hands-y. Euphonically speaking.
2nd stanza. Horse? Where he come from?
"lavender mist in the corner of my bedroom (and all the sensuality implied)," don't you dare touch this line because it's perfect
"she tells me hope flowers." or this one.
The cat accident kinda feels out of place in tone. The rest, while not necessarily concretely connected all maintains a surreal or poetic character. Cat "accidents" are hard to make poetic outside of limerick or deliberately humorous works.
Yeah. That's my thoughts, for whatever they are worth.