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you said Is
there anything which
is dead or alive more beautiful
than my body,to have in your fingers
(trembling ever so little)?
Looking into
your eyes Nothing,i said,except the
air of spring smelling of never and forever.
….and through the lattice which moved as
if a hand is touched by a
hand(which
moved as though
fingers touch a girl’s
breast,
lightly)
Do you believe in always,the wind
said to the rain
I am too busy with
my flowers to believe,the rain answered
-e.e. cummings
RHYME SCHEMES YOUR MIND SCREAMS
FROM ALL THESE BLIND THEMES
BURSTING AT THE SEAMS,
WHILE THE WORLD TEEMS
WHILE SHE LEANS
IN THE STREAMS
WHILE SHE FIENDS
GOOD SOY BEANS
WHILE SHE CLEANS
FOR THE QUEENS
AND IT STEAMS
AND IT DREAMS
Hey you. You’re a rather charming illusion.
Why, thank you. How does your garden grow?
In the strangest of places!
Oh my.
May every single love become you, may the doom undie
while you drink and get hiiiiiigh
he holds me, he heals me
while the sun comes up,
feels like ecstasy
in my cup.
the Be abyss is never missed,
though it should be,
let’s be. let’s be free
(i like
to be kissed)
come now this is how
and what and why you would,
cum now this is wow
thisissofuckinggood
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seemed filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms i owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
-Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster
-Elizabeth Bishop, One Art
Sonnet the Hedgehog
Rhyme schemes your mind screams from all these blind themes
bursting at the seams, while the world spins bright
as snow and light
as air, there’s nothing there
to keep you sane, just the blood in your veins,
just these fettered dreams, just the day at dawn,
greeting me with a breeze and a long yawn.
It opens and closes, you loved me well,
but away I go from this perennial hell.
Here’s to the stars, the ocean, the trees,
here’s to learning never to say please,
being hot for life, stepping on its heels
and standing still while everything reels-
and when it all comes crashing down on me
know there is nothing that is like to be.
……………………Can I… tonight? What? Again? No. Wait! Maybe. I said…
But your
face
looked so
peaceful
in your
sleep.
……………………It’s not, I’m scratching my ankles endlessly in my dreams.
………….(the sun is safe
………….behind the giant ogres
………….all around us)
What
smells
like
opium?
……………………That’s the cat. Little Green Eyes.
…………..(meow)
Oh my
she’s
eaten
all the
strawberries.
……………………You weren’t meant to keep them.
I just
……………………No. Can’t you hear anything?
I just hope
she enjoys them
……………………The clouds are rolling in again.
Oh God,
this is
so
fucking
beautiful.
your perfervid nature! damn it!
perfervid, syn. fervid, fervent, intense, vehement, impassioned, fierce, ardent, violent, heightened, enhanced
Just when you think you’re acting the most spontaneously, you’re acting the most predictably.
soften the knees
and grip the earth
to rapture! to felicity!
to eccentricity!
to purity and honesty!
to now, to me
to how i must be.
time flies. time dies.
lucid and
perennial
.
“Just slap a wig on an ox why don’t you?”
“She’s either deaf or has down syndrome.”
-Andrew Fucking Flint, on Nico
For a soul, for something true,
for something I have spent my whole life trying
to find, it had been found, it is being
found, my door stands open,
we laugh and drink til dawn,
until the pain is gone.
i keep strange hours.
here’s to the heart of the matter, to opening and upward.
the steady rise, the beautiful journey back to begin,
the song you can’t get out of your head.
in the darkness small thoughts fester and foster
here’s to fortitude, to the beatitudes!
your attitude, your joy and your peace,
the now that tastes like tulips,
the soft and the gentle,
the lovely abyss.
be more say more hear more songs in the breeze
write furiously, be crazed with ecstatic complacency!
this is a hearty hello,
this is the softest pillow
be gentle with yourself
find the love in the trees
learn how not to say please
let go, be free
this was meant for me to
be more!
write sonnets at dawn
you create the world you live in you craft the self
you choose how not to think
and how to believe
it may not always be so;and i say
that if your lips,which i have loved,should touch
another’s,and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart,as mine in time not far away;
if on another’s face your sweet hair lay
in such a silence as i know,or such
great writhing words as,uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;
if this should be,i say if this should be-
you of my heart,send me a little word;
that i may go unto him,and take his hands,
saying,Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall i turn my face,and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands.
-e.e. cummings
Love is a dangerous angel.
You cannot cage the wind, you must
become it.
Day greets me brightly every night, as
I extricate you from my sight,
like bones from the skin,
you were so far in-
I will not be tender,
I will rip you out,
scatter my bones,
leave them to the dogs.
My heart beats pure pain,
I drop the love from my eyes.
The frigid wind extinguishes all glowing.
I will match you each
of my foolish hopes for each
of your careless lies.
I will rip you out.
I will not have mercy.
And I will not make the same mistake twice.
or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
Sometime between night and morning,
I steal minutes from my bedside,
turning them over carefully
in my hands.
As the sun engulfs this small, cramped haven,
as the beats stir to life, to warm the small places,
between my fingers and toes:
I crawl outside and to the roof,
I let the light tuck itself neatly
around the world,
and I miss you very elegantly.
Nothing is sweeter than cold white wine on a hot summer morning.
Nothing is finer than the rich and well-lit dawn.
The day yawns open to greet me,
as I scratch it behind the ears;
I measure love in the time it takes
for me to crumble.
The game is on,
my nerves are lit:
under heavy fire
and fuel is this writ.
an unresolvable dynamic resulting from
a tedium of dreams combined with
a few isocoles triangles,
who watch my movements from
shaded corridors
as I take out the trash.
Taking out the trash,
I catch your reflection in the glass.
One must stop caring about such things.
Oh call it off!
call me crazy.
Take your world rainstorm by rainstorm
into the bright and painful light.
I will sit here and write.
I will list my loves on one finger.
I will spit and snarl and howl at the moon.
I will throw the frail bodies of joy and suffering
mercilessly against the brick walls of this place!
Leave it to be,
be it to grow,
grow to be more.
I am tired okay?
I am tired every day.
I am bored without a drink or a bowl.
I am psychotic and sane!
I am your neurons your fire your pain!
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