You're grey-eyed and grinning in the doorway,
lips cold and capillary-blue,
and I'm waiting for some signal to move,
pressed between pages, preserved.
Your hand rests upon the light-switch,
but the glow of morning betrays you,
the clumsy flushed fingers of dawn
pushing through layers of winter coat
to expose the deep red tulips
blooming though your shirt.
You're wearing your bullet-hole like a boutonniere, baby,
like you're expecting me to laugh,
like you're hoping I'll take it as a joke.
And in my mind,
I can feel my ribs snapping like wishbones
on so many Thanksgiving turkeys.
My skin's unraveling,
teeth falling out throu
I am the river's son,
my arteries flowing turquoise
and turning to rapids
rushing around my frame,
filling me with this sense
of buoyancy, minnows
tickling my sternum.
I am the river's son.
My palms caress each
silty shoreline, every
battered bank and bend,
and these places I know
so well become me
as my fingerprint,
even the bridge above me
inflamed by the afternoon
sun-glow, burning rusty and
blood-orange against
the steel blue sky.
I am the river's son;
I bring my home along
like hermit crab,
where I step
I pull water from the earth.
A Very Silly Poem (Playing Around with Sounds) by KaseyKillface, literature
Literature
A Very Silly Poem (Playing Around with Sounds)
Okay.
It's a party, somewhere downtown,
you're just staring at your shoes-
but your gaze moves and
drifting nimbus-like into
your view are
these beautiful eyes, like a sunrise,
like a hundred monarch butterflies
some hint of sunlight
on a Sunday night-
you're falling.
Oh come on,
I know you've been there-
brain waves turn to static;
brain's an empty attic.
You can't think of anything clever
so most times you just mutter
or you stutter something like
"wh-whatever,"
feigning apathy,
causing your vocabulary's atrophy.
You're not charming, it's alarming-
your heart is beating through your ears.
If you could just think of o
In my fevered dreams
I couldn't breathe.
Thin fingers wrapped
around my neck,
but they became like spidery veins,
the roots of something green growing inside,
starting at my lungs,
wrapped around my esophagus
like a weed, feeding off of my breath.
The plant grew and grew,
and bloomed soft petals from my lips,
blossoms of honeysuckle
that made my exhalations sweet
and my voice beautiful.
And I dissolved into a different dream,
where the yellow scent
of blooming daffodils
was overwhelming;
the perfume made us dizzy
and drunk with feeling
as we walked in the arboretum
with the turtles and catfish
that flew around o
I am deception,
a sheep in wolf's clothing.
and so far the meek have inherited
nothing.
Stop this vulgar bark,
your bite never piercing.
I know everything you'll say.
You never dare to live.
.
I am always
thinking, my brain always humming:
"....the sheer guts and
the bloody-minded determination..."
I feel as if I am not
speaking, not breathing, either
as if the bronchi are
frozen in barbaric ice
like these city streets.
I stay at home not
doing
anything.
The world is all like
bits, pieces coming up
shattered mirror,
seven years mo
The child watches the hummingbirds
gathered around the feeder.
Glinting green creatures hang in the air.
They send vibrations like tuning forks
from invisible wings. She thinks
their stomachs must be filled with helium.
They float like peacock-colored balloons
in the wind, tiny alien dirigibles.
The impossible-seeming physics of it,
like light as both particle and wave
are to a brand-new mind
indistinguishable from magic.
When does the natural world
lose that awe-inspiring glory?
When do we become complacent
with hummingbirds?
More closely watch the child's eyes
shining like silver nitrate,
alive and illuminated,
incandes
Each day with you
is precious and stolen,
a firefly I collect
in the mason jar
between spine and sternum
locked between my ribs,
housing moments
preserved like fall
leaves pressed between pages,
passionate red and yellow
staining parchment .
I keep this collection
of memories
to remember you
in the months to come
where we are separated
by cities, stoplights
and highway hypnosis,
so I can still recall
you and I
in the arboretum,
the golden scent
of daffodils
making us dizzy
and drunk with feeling,
as we count the catfish
in the toad-belly-green pond
and talk about a future
where we live in a little house
with a
The thing is, I lose everything.
I've misplaced all the
things I own at least twice.
No thing is safe
from disappearing,
it all slips between the threads
rough stitched fabric
of my universe.
A few weeks ago,
a pair of rose colored
rabbit-shaped earrings
went missing.
They must have scampered away
from my bedside table
as I slept.
and yesterday too my class ring,
with dragon insignia
carved into its metal side,
lost so many times
I've just stopped looking.
It always turns up again
like a hungry cat.
Long ago I bid farewell
to a book of poetry
by Billy Collins,
each page dressed
in a suit of marginalia
I came upon a congregation of trees,
their foliage illuminated into verdant halos
by the sunset sky of atomic tangerine,
and sat for a while to watch their
swaying celebration, the dance of the forest.
Aware of my own limbs, inelegant
as ginger roots, I offered up a prayer:
let my phalanges bloom at the tips,
my cartridge unravel into moss,
my spine stretch into a single, solid trunk,
my hair become prickly spikes of pine-
for I would be united with the whole wood
growing in regal and deliberate lentissimo,
one column in a cathedral for foxes,
one more shining cedar
stretching its fingers upward
in praise of the heavens
fr
Every day she still dons a dress of asphalt
& a string of pearls shining like wolves teeth,
though she sees only bones and butterflies
behind her skin, nervous wings fluttering
against the ivory of her skeleton.
As she pulls up the silver spine
of her black dress,
her fingers tremble like
hollow reeds in the wind.
With mascara lashes sticky and dark,
she gives butterfly kisses to the air,
blinks back a memory
and bites a flesh-red lip.
She fights back the instinct to run
and instead tightens sinews in her shoulders
like the string of a bow.
Today,
she'll think she sees his face
in the mask of a stranger on the subway
and f
You're grey-eyed and grinning in the doorway,
lips cold and capillary-blue,
and I'm waiting for some signal to move,
pressed between pages, preserved.
Your hand rests upon the light-switch,
but the glow of morning betrays you,
the clumsy flushed fingers of dawn
pushing through layers of winter coat
to expose the deep red tulips
blooming though your shirt.
You're wearing your bullet-hole like a boutonniere, baby,
like you're expecting me to laugh,
like you're hoping I'll take it as a joke.
And in my mind,
I can feel my ribs snapping like wishbones
on so many Thanksgiving turkeys.
My skin's unraveling,
teeth falling out throu
I am the river's son,
my arteries flowing turquoise
and turning to rapids
rushing around my frame,
filling me with this sense
of buoyancy, minnows
tickling my sternum.
I am the river's son.
My palms caress each
silty shoreline, every
battered bank and bend,
and these places I know
so well become me
as my fingerprint,
even the bridge above me
inflamed by the afternoon
sun-glow, burning rusty and
blood-orange against
the steel blue sky.
I am the river's son;
I bring my home along
like hermit crab,
where I step
I pull water from the earth.
A Very Silly Poem (Playing Around with Sounds) by KaseyKillface, literature
Literature
A Very Silly Poem (Playing Around with Sounds)
Okay.
It's a party, somewhere downtown,
you're just staring at your shoes-
but your gaze moves and
drifting nimbus-like into
your view are
these beautiful eyes, like a sunrise,
like a hundred monarch butterflies
some hint of sunlight
on a Sunday night-
you're falling.
Oh come on,
I know you've been there-
brain waves turn to static;
brain's an empty attic.
You can't think of anything clever
so most times you just mutter
or you stutter something like
"wh-whatever,"
feigning apathy,
causing your vocabulary's atrophy.
You're not charming, it's alarming-
your heart is beating through your ears.
If you could just think of o
In my fevered dreams
I couldn't breathe.
Thin fingers wrapped
around my neck,
but they became like spidery veins,
the roots of something green growing inside,
starting at my lungs,
wrapped around my esophagus
like a weed, feeding off of my breath.
The plant grew and grew,
and bloomed soft petals from my lips,
blossoms of honeysuckle
that made my exhalations sweet
and my voice beautiful.
And I dissolved into a different dream,
where the yellow scent
of blooming daffodils
was overwhelming;
the perfume made us dizzy
and drunk with feeling
as we walked in the arboretum
with the turtles and catfish
that flew around o
I am deception,
a sheep in wolf's clothing.
and so far the meek have inherited
nothing.
Stop this vulgar bark,
your bite never piercing.
I know everything you'll say.
You never dare to live.
.
I am always
thinking, my brain always humming:
"....the sheer guts and
the bloody-minded determination..."
I feel as if I am not
speaking, not breathing, either
as if the bronchi are
frozen in barbaric ice
like these city streets.
I stay at home not
doing
anything.
The world is all like
bits, pieces coming up
shattered mirror,
seven years mo
The child watches the hummingbirds
gathered around the feeder.
Glinting green creatures hang in the air.
They send vibrations like tuning forks
from invisible wings. She thinks
their stomachs must be filled with helium.
They float like peacock-colored balloons
in the wind, tiny alien dirigibles.
The impossible-seeming physics of it,
like light as both particle and wave
are to a brand-new mind
indistinguishable from magic.
When does the natural world
lose that awe-inspiring glory?
When do we become complacent
with hummingbirds?
More closely watch the child's eyes
shining like silver nitrate,
alive and illuminated,
incandes
Each day with you
is precious and stolen,
a firefly I collect
in the mason jar
between spine and sternum
locked between my ribs,
housing moments
preserved like fall
leaves pressed between pages,
passionate red and yellow
staining parchment .
I keep this collection
of memories
to remember you
in the months to come
where we are separated
by cities, stoplights
and highway hypnosis,
so I can still recall
you and I
in the arboretum,
the golden scent
of daffodils
making us dizzy
and drunk with feeling,
as we count the catfish
in the toad-belly-green pond
and talk about a future
where we live in a little house
with a
The thing is, I lose everything.
I've misplaced all the
things I own at least twice.
No thing is safe
from disappearing,
it all slips between the threads
rough stitched fabric
of my universe.
A few weeks ago,
a pair of rose colored
rabbit-shaped earrings
went missing.
They must have scampered away
from my bedside table
as I slept.
and yesterday too my class ring,
with dragon insignia
carved into its metal side,
lost so many times
I've just stopped looking.
It always turns up again
like a hungry cat.
Long ago I bid farewell
to a book of poetry
by Billy Collins,
each page dressed
in a suit of marginalia
I came upon a congregation of trees,
their foliage illuminated into verdant halos
by the sunset sky of atomic tangerine,
and sat for a while to watch their
swaying celebration, the dance of the forest.
Aware of my own limbs, inelegant
as ginger roots, I offered up a prayer:
let my phalanges bloom at the tips,
my cartridge unravel into moss,
my spine stretch into a single, solid trunk,
my hair become prickly spikes of pine-
for I would be united with the whole wood
growing in regal and deliberate lentissimo,
one column in a cathedral for foxes,
one more shining cedar
stretching its fingers upward
in praise of the heavens
fr
Every day she still dons a dress of asphalt
& a string of pearls shining like wolves teeth,
though she sees only bones and butterflies
behind her skin, nervous wings fluttering
against the ivory of her skeleton.
As she pulls up the silver spine
of her black dress,
her fingers tremble like
hollow reeds in the wind.
With mascara lashes sticky and dark,
she gives butterfly kisses to the air,
blinks back a memory
and bites a flesh-red lip.
She fights back the instinct to run
and instead tightens sinews in her shoulders
like the string of a bow.
Today,
she'll think she sees his face
in the mask of a stranger on the subway
and f
The Thing About Cliches by summernightangel, literature
Literature
The Thing About Cliches
I.
If this were a cliché,
A poem, or both
It would be about sparkling midnight skies and heartbeats and flowers and sex.
There would be oceanic eyes and rain that tastes like tears. Well throw in anxiety-riddled murmurs and metaphorical bullets and allusions to sharp objects for pity.
This is not a cliché anymore.
So instead I wrote about the flavor of emerald and the fragrance of April hope. I painted pictures of a perfect pencil, poised over a blank page.
II.
If this were a romance,
A message in a bottle, or both
It would still be cliché, to capture electric fingers and longings locked away with skeleton keys
My words are not as elegant
As the moonlight playing on the waves.
The sound of my beating heart
Is not as regular
As the crashing of the waves
Against our beach.
Again and again.
I've lost myself in this ocean before.
Lost myself trying desperately to find you.
You admired how the stars
Twinkled like little spots of God's soul,
Reflecting off the surface of the water.
Your search led you deeper
And deeper
Below the surface.
Until one day,
It swallowed you whole
Took your breath
And crushed your lungs.
Have you found your God?
Have you found the love?
Or did the miles and miles of water
Only swallow your worries
With se
The thing is, I lose everything.
I've misplaced all the
things I own at least twice.
No thing is safe
from disappearing,
it all slips between the threads
rough stitched fabric
of my universe.
A few weeks ago,
a pair of rose colored
rabbit-shaped earrings
went missing.
They must have scampered away
from my bedside table
as I slept.
and yesterday too my class ring,
with dragon insignia
carved into its metal side,
lost so many times
I've just stopped looking.
It always turns up again
like a hungry cat.
Long ago I bid farewell
to a book of poetry
by Billy Collins,
each page dressed
in a suit of marginalia
<ordie>The Cabal Chorus <ordie>Kasey writes, James sings, and the rest of us are the people who laugh in-between verses and when the big flashing panel LAUGH goes on
Current Residence: USA Favourite genre of music: Folk Punk
Hey everyone, I just stumbled upon a bunch of my older poems while going through my google docs account, so I'm going to upload a few of them on to here.
Carry on.
I haven't been uploading new stuff with quite the alacrity as I used to. That will most likely change, however, over the summer. I'm currently working on four or so poems that I'll post eventually. I take everything through at least ten drafts before I'm remotely happy with it these days.
Heading off to college in the fall. I'm going to James Madison University, which is pretty fantastic. They have the best program in the state for Special Education, which is what I aspire to do. They also have a fairly extensive poetry club called The Furious Flower, which is responsible for the campus literary magazine, "Blooming in the Noise."
Less than
The title says it all. I thought I'd just draw attention to it.
Oh, and now that I'm writing a journal entry I've remembered that I actually have a relevant update! So, I have couple friends who write poetry, and we all read/comment on each others stuff to the point where we've really influenced each other. Lately, one friend of mine has noticed that we all write poems around the same general theme of humanity/what it means to be human. Therefore, being the cool kids that we are, we've decided to try starting a poetry movement in our community called "New Humanism" or something like that. We're putting some of our stuff into a collection th