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Literature Text
I am eyes, that unholy duality.
Six deer browse in the dead field;
they have survived late fall
with its plague of men and guns.
I am eyes, turned to the pregnant sky.
Pockets for hands, thick wool for feet,
but eyes take the cold head-on.
There is clamor far away. There is cackle and bray.
There is grumble and wine, there is raw meet.
Handed over like suspicion, taken like greed,
like gold from the cocoa-skinned hide-hidden
lesser gods, there disappears my world.
But I know nothing of this. I am sleepy.
I am eyes.
Six deer browse in the dead field;
they have survived late fall
with its plague of men and guns.
I am eyes, turned to the pregnant sky.
Pockets for hands, thick wool for feet,
but eyes take the cold head-on.
There is clamor far away. There is cackle and bray.
There is grumble and wine, there is raw meet.
Handed over like suspicion, taken like greed,
like gold from the cocoa-skinned hide-hidden
lesser gods, there disappears my world.
But I know nothing of this. I am sleepy.
I am eyes.
Literature
blue hour eyes
people say
sparks fly when you meet your somebody
but it wasn't like that with you.
there were no sparks when we met,
no birds singing, no cartoon
hearts.
you were reading.
it was a thick book, and old,
and dogeared
and you glanced up at me,
and smiled
and i remember noticing that your
eyes were blue
[not blue like the ocean
or the sky
but blue like mountains that are fading
into the distance
blue like the moment after the sun sets
blue like snow in the twilight]
and when i heard your
voice for the first time,
it felt familiar
and new
and strange, but beautiful
twisting around me
like the music you sometimes hear in
Literature
I am standing
It's been months since I wanted to break out of my body. Okay, that's a lie. But it's been days. Days since I've felt static scorch underneath my skin, felt colours cutting into my eyes, had to explain that these aren't metaphors. There are so many ways you can get used to living. I wonder if anyone else feels empty when they don't have creatures clawing up through their throat.
I don't know what art is, or what okay is. I like to believe I know it when I feel it, but I'm not so sure I would. I think people expect me to be a lot more insightful than I am right now. I don't think they take into account that boredom is stressful, and stress ca
Literature
to be a writer
jump into the world headfirst
crack open your skull on the ocean
sink like a forgotten shipwreck in the belly of a herman whale
come up for air
stumble across the words of the story-- tell it again
lie to a loved one, a stranger, both of them
get away with it in a stolen limousine
write lists that you will never complete
hang them like goodbyes from anywhere they will stick
fall in love like a wrecking ball, destroy a whole city (pretend to)
have your ernest heart ridden with bulletholes, alone on a timber hillside
find god, realize he is just as lost as the rest of us
give him a kurt laugh and look elsewhere
grow an ego with hooves & h
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I am such an ostrich and a sheep.
And duly inspired by those who come before.
Keep it up we'll have created a new sort of Frankenstein.
And duly inspired by those who come before.
Keep it up we'll have created a new sort of Frankenstein.
I Am A Foot Socks, powerlines, scrubby bushes in my line of view
Metal buildings, metal skies, metal plates in my head
Incandescant tubelights shifting shadowhand animals
Smiling blacklight strobedance in my psychedelic robe
I beam dollfaces onto porcelain, I am a foot
The doll army is crossing the hallow in fancy fabric dress
No ocean can keep them from lifting my bones up
Socket puppets, beware, this is the real thing, this is now
Yesterday dropped off of the edge of the flatroof, gone
Tomorrow is an egg, waiting to be broken, I am a foot
Laundryday breakaway, glean, gleam, moonbeam
Reams of dreams rolled out in the desert with pot pie
I Am a Hand Student armies crawl Seattle in "We're the 99 percent" T-shirts
No panhandlers, no uniform, can keep my bones from aching
Marionettes, take care: this is not your place, not now
Tomorrow drips from a hot tin roof, exhausted and waiting
Today is a fried egg, broken; I am a hand
Armwarmers, telephone lines; a shattered visage in my view
Concrete sidewalks, concrete skyline, less-than-concrete dreams
Burnt-out streetlight throwing shadows on a building wall
Tear gas brickbats flow across my TV plasma screen
I knit silk boxers into doilies; I am a hand
Garbage truck castaways, hopes of a dawn long gone
Thoughts in chalk, city sidew
I am knees I wait around, for a bend in the lacking.
The gravel is my nearest friend, catching
and waiting with me; I am knees.
Feet attempt to take away unheld hands.
I can not look myself in the eyes; shame
is a broken mirror. Shards of afterthought
find a home in me. I am knees.
I am always falling, in wander of the feeling
of being caught by not a friend. Yet,
it is always the gravel waiting; I am knees.
And you,
you are gone.
© 2012 - 2024 riparii
Comments77
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I adore your poetry. This is pure inspiration. 