i.
five bottles of light
rest on my window;
they are small,
coloured
ii.
there are stories and
stories
of sex, hidden in the
handbag;
black leather,
I could never tell
iii.
a list of ten, more
reasons to
love you;
a justification
iv.
more humid than rain;
my whole is saturated,
tired
v.
monday was lust;
tuesday boredom;
wednesday digust; and
today, I am
apathetic.
you read me a novel,
it read that I,
sweet like
'sorry',
was angry
and that when we
fought, spat
and trembled
I told the
truth,
boiled and
we did not
comprehend
each of our
sins
-
you hurled me back
to the prelude
with mis-
understanding and I
fled, my past in my
mouth and I
scratched and bruised
like love-bites,
overwhelming my
skin
-
climax;
a scream when you
applogised in
the kitchen,
fell to the floor
and we needed a
mother,
pappa and mamma
came to comfort,
infuse
comprehension
-
we are the mountains
around my home,
pouring and foggy
and relentless
and perhaps mamma
was right, perhaps
stille w
i.
not so much as
needing love,
as needing to
return it;
warmth and
comfort,
love is
lacking
ii.
today it is
grey, raining -
the valley is green;
my body is heavy,
sad
iii.
with distance,
you are perfect
a textbook of
romance and yet
eye-to-eye,
I feel empty
about you
iv.
1939, music and
jazz on
your radio,
I understand, you
do not;
we cannot
fit
v.
everyone has left,
smiling in the snow
and together --
I miss them and wish
to be there,
then it would
not be so
grey, homeless.
spring rain in summer
december is cold;
I am not at home
with you, where
night is
soft
and
you speak
of love,
weeping;
I do not love you,
yet distance
empties
the grey
and I would speak;
raise my decibels and
slight you
for my
stains --
I think, I am
found wanting
-
so we will break;
seventeen kilometres
of not-quite-regret
and denied words
for [making] love is
repulsive;
sex is unfeeling
and past lovers,
half-built walls
have not yet
been
confessed, confronted.
i.
there is a locket
with books and birds
and us,
entwined
ii.
passed, September
brings October;
the sky, earth is
lilac
iii.
we touched without
movement,
your hands sighed
iv.
phrases and eyes sway me;
I will be grey
when you are
v.
a town of crystals,
sepia-sun and
peace;
I am there, within
the city
vi.
we speak of making
love, and I will
admit an
enigma
vii.
you have only two
names;
both are kind
viii.
and we will
live, in the
dawn of contentment;
naked and alive
ix.
pulsatilla for my
eyes, sulphur
for I;
my spirit is calm,
my body is tired
x.
and soon, it will
be December,
and while dista
one third broke --
my heart
'clair de lune' and
other beautiful
bodies, that we don't
share
october brings november
and so, there are two
of me, again
the boy with blue hair
and piano-accordians
gave me pause
and our
disimilarities
ensued
the bathroom door
speaks of peace
yet you smiled when
I did not, there
and daisies will
adorn my eyes,
yet you are
colourless
there was a song
of his soul, and
intellect, and
whole, however;
you and I, we
are separate,
joined only by
limbs
except for the monday
when I bleed
[a full moon]
endeared, you are named
beautiful, yet
my spirit is
not, and so
something is grey;
I bought lavender and
valerian,
for rest,
phosphorus for the tightness
in my chest;
I couldn't breathe on Sunday.
xxx
Today, you were studied,
in the car;
red like the sun
from the smoke.
xxx
Nine-oh-eight,
hugged by a boy;
he shares
more similarities
than us.
xxx
Cried when you left,
I have to stand
on my toes
before I go
inside.
xxx
Saddened, despondent;
comparisions make
rifts, rafts,
you are perfect
when we are
alone.
xxx
Gold, silver;
tomorrow
I will not ask
for anything --
your eyes are
too honest.
i.
written,
last night
of Hyperion and an end;
bodies, lips and ink.
ii.
taken,
astragalus,
andrographis, china and
peppermint
for rest;
the solace of care.
iii.
sleepless,
for silence and
opposite ends;
today I don't love you.
iv.
remembered,
love was more
when I missed you;
vain, I could only
love a soldier.
v.
spoken,
brown-eyes agreed and
shared our despondency;
you aren't as
sympathatic as
strangers are.
vi.
lost,
the length of
happiness, the warmth
of home;
home is broken.
vii.
replaced,
intellect with harm,
thought with grey;
burn-out stops the heart,
at least.
viii.
displaced,
the reason, r
i.
five bottles of light
rest on my window;
they are small,
coloured
ii.
there are stories and
stories
of sex, hidden in the
handbag;
black leather,
I could never tell
iii.
a list of ten, more
reasons to
love you;
a justification
iv.
more humid than rain;
my whole is saturated,
tired
v.
monday was lust;
tuesday boredom;
wednesday digust; and
today, I am
apathetic.
you read me a novel,
it read that I,
sweet like
'sorry',
was angry
and that when we
fought, spat
and trembled
I told the
truth,
boiled and
we did not
comprehend
each of our
sins
-
you hurled me back
to the prelude
with mis-
understanding and I
fled, my past in my
mouth and I
scratched and bruised
like love-bites,
overwhelming my
skin
-
climax;
a scream when you
applogised in
the kitchen,
fell to the floor
and we needed a
mother,
pappa and mamma
came to comfort,
infuse
comprehension
-
we are the mountains
around my home,
pouring and foggy
and relentless
and perhaps mamma
was right, perhaps
stille w
i.
not so much as
needing love,
as needing to
return it;
warmth and
comfort,
love is
lacking
ii.
today it is
grey, raining -
the valley is green;
my body is heavy,
sad
iii.
with distance,
you are perfect
a textbook of
romance and yet
eye-to-eye,
I feel empty
about you
iv.
1939, music and
jazz on
your radio,
I understand, you
do not;
we cannot
fit
v.
everyone has left,
smiling in the snow
and together --
I miss them and wish
to be there,
then it would
not be so
grey, homeless.
spring rain in summer
december is cold;
I am not at home
with you, where
night is
soft
and
you speak
of love,
weeping;
I do not love you,
yet distance
empties
the grey
and I would speak;
raise my decibels and
slight you
for my
stains --
I think, I am
found wanting
-
so we will break;
seventeen kilometres
of not-quite-regret
and denied words
for [making] love is
repulsive;
sex is unfeeling
and past lovers,
half-built walls
have not yet
been
confessed, confronted.
i.
there is a locket
with books and birds
and us,
entwined
ii.
passed, September
brings October;
the sky, earth is
lilac
iii.
we touched without
movement,
your hands sighed
iv.
phrases and eyes sway me;
I will be grey
when you are
v.
a town of crystals,
sepia-sun and
peace;
I am there, within
the city
vi.
we speak of making
love, and I will
admit an
enigma
vii.
you have only two
names;
both are kind
viii.
and we will
live, in the
dawn of contentment;
naked and alive
ix.
pulsatilla for my
eyes, sulphur
for I;
my spirit is calm,
my body is tired
x.
and soon, it will
be December,
and while dista
one third broke --
my heart
'clair de lune' and
other beautiful
bodies, that we don't
share
october brings november
and so, there are two
of me, again
the boy with blue hair
and piano-accordians
gave me pause
and our
disimilarities
ensued
the bathroom door
speaks of peace
yet you smiled when
I did not, there
and daisies will
adorn my eyes,
yet you are
colourless
there was a song
of his soul, and
intellect, and
whole, however;
you and I, we
are separate,
joined only by
limbs
except for the monday
when I bleed
[a full moon]
endeared, you are named
beautiful, yet
my spirit is
not, and so
something is grey;
I bought lavender and
valerian,
for rest,
phosphorus for the tightness
in my chest;
I couldn't breathe on Sunday.
xxx
Today, you were studied,
in the car;
red like the sun
from the smoke.
xxx
Nine-oh-eight,
hugged by a boy;
he shares
more similarities
than us.
xxx
Cried when you left,
I have to stand
on my toes
before I go
inside.
xxx
Saddened, despondent;
comparisions make
rifts, rafts,
you are perfect
when we are
alone.
xxx
Gold, silver;
tomorrow
I will not ask
for anything --
your eyes are
too honest.
i.
written,
last night
of Hyperion and an end;
bodies, lips and ink.
ii.
taken,
astragalus,
andrographis, china and
peppermint
for rest;
the solace of care.
iii.
sleepless,
for silence and
opposite ends;
today I don't love you.
iv.
remembered,
love was more
when I missed you;
vain, I could only
love a soldier.
v.
spoken,
brown-eyes agreed and
shared our despondency;
you aren't as
sympathatic as
strangers are.
vi.
lost,
the length of
happiness, the warmth
of home;
home is broken.
vii.
replaced,
intellect with harm,
thought with grey;
burn-out stops the heart,
at least.
viii.
displaced,
the reason, r
i.
Hamlet spoke
of the slings and arrows
of outrageous fortune,and
of what comes after death
and during, but darling
your mind and mine;
poles apart but stationary
begs and pulls and cannot
decipher, determine
what we are to do;
ii.
but not you, for you are
drunk and heavy with love;
a romantic in Venice
iii.
and myself -- opposing;
a blacksmith in Rome
whose heart strings
cannot, will not be
welded around yours
iv.
I wrote a letter to you about
sodium; about how I needed to tell you
that there are some things that aren't, like how
love isn't lust and your heart isn't mine even though
it should be and how mine
I
I read that "anyone can write"
And that intellectual elitism was wrong
In a literary journal from 1985.
So forgive me for being at university
My suburban fiends.
I'm not siding with the feminists yet,
Just the hippies.
They keep trying to sell me drugs
To help me work
But I tell them "not today"
And sit in my room reading.
II
Maybe today I'll write;
But probably just smoke instead.
My friend caught a case of the mania,
Not Beatle mania, but the sort that
Sets you up in a home for life,
While she echoes equal rights indeed.
III
All poetry needs
Is a catchy one-liner/
Just ask Anon 2012.
Let's hope Lazarus can dig. by AstuteEyes, literature
Literature
Let's hope Lazarus can dig.
What if Christ made a faux pas?
He was told old Lazzy was a good man
Of God, but let's not assume
They didn't just miss him
That rotten child beater,
He was a pretty swell guy.
His wife did him in,
Maybe she should have told Him
Then he'd have to dig out
His own way.
If I recall, they
Interred him in Cambridgeshire
Or was that just my ancestral home?
I'm confusing things.
Anyway.
Lazarus was dead,
Just like me.
Don't mind me,
I'll become pure with the rain who closes in.
I'll wish it to be cinematic
a horror
you watch alone.
Lofty camera points
yet never to be seen
because these crowds are haunting me.
They ask for me to see themselves
and I can only bare myself in return
i dreamt of youth, and when i woke
i rose; and i was old
and i spoke thus:
i do not remember this world
nor the mad shapes that attend it;
i am past, first and last
of my descendants.
in this madness i am brought to task..
hold fast to the finitude of your art
for it feeds the fury of my craft.
Dear all,
I am in the process of moving to: http://staphysagria.deviantart.com/ .
I decided that my username needed some renewing and I wish to be more selective in what I submit.
A way of cleaning up, I suppose.
Most of my writings will be there, eventually.
Lovelies, see you there,
-J.
Lovelies,
How are we all?
School has finally finished; twelve years of schooling is over and
three months lie ahead.
The word 'love' must mean something different;
being in love must take patience, right?
Tell me, dearies:
i.
What does it mean to be in love?
ii.
What is love supposed to feel like?
iii.
Is it okay to not feel the rush of young love, but mutal respect?
I hope you all are well. I will read your words, eventually, and I shall write some of my own.
-J.
I'm sorry I haven't been replying to messages -- I'll get to it soon.
I'm sorry I haven't been reading and loving your writing -- I hope to, soon.
There are so many things in life to do, loves. So much life.
So I will ask some questions, and hope to read some beautiful answers when I return now
and again.
i. What brings peace to your bones?
ii. How do you overcome a fear (of the dark, perhaps)?
iii. What do you wish to do more of, in life?
iv. What lovely trinkets adorn your walls? [this question may be metaphorical]
v. Tell me a word; a phrase that brings you home.
-J.
P.S. Endless thank you's, for the DD. I'm flattered, surprised