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More from ~wander-mind

brittlefinger, glassgirl1)
i stop wearing jeans.

consume only poetry, let it burrow
and wriggle under my eyeballs, play
with the hairs on my neck.
i break the twigs of my fingers for fun. birds
call me in the night time; i tell my mother
i am growing hollow bones for flying.
it's funny the things you learn in the dark.

2)
pale with knowledge, the next morning i can walk on grass without bending blades.
it is made of razors that cut my feet.
i have too many teeth;
am made of matchsticks, burnt out and crumbling, sleeves pulled down, buttoning
and unbuttoning, aswirl with litres of water at a time.
i am a current of an ocean turned in on its own nob
talking to beetles in the gardeni close the doors of the rooms as i leave them
so that when i vacuum it will feel like i am discovering
new places i have not been before, portals
opening in the walls- i have been
to Narnia & it is filthy. in the castle
beyond the goblin city there are stains
in the bathtub i've yet to sort out, & a yellow alligator
that squeaks. we are
slides printed onto an overhead projector, smearing our lives on the lightbox
telling stories too rich for blood &
writing poems to translate the old poems;
this is the first river, it is the face of god, this is
a series of words & it is god's face too, read it
and learn to die honourably.
y
never a novelisttell me a story,
spin me a line, so easily led
further into you, twist fingers through your soft
chest-organs, feel words etched there
as if to hide them from

anyone but
[it was always anyone but me until it was]

me                      these words mean too much
words are too much not
enough too strong too      fast faster
faster

you say you always preferred picture books
tenderness is a communicable diseasei.
it is finally time to admit that
it is the air that kills us,
because we breathe in
the terror
and pain, gasping for anguish, euphoria, alveoli swollen
with the dank pollution of feeling.  smokers cough up remorse. we suffer
from laughter;     happiness
snags at the back of the throat, chokes us to tears;
catch the scent of lust off one another's' skin and it's all downhill
from there. love itself is poison.

ii.
i am building a woman from red brick.
climbing her square thighs; i will paint her
'barely lilac' and pretend she has soft hands.

no lungs will betray her. i will feed her no wet oysters
of adoration
to slick
ways to lie under the tree and look at the skyi.
lay your ink-stained souls together amid a scatter of starry
leaf-bodies;
straight-backed, palms flat on the ground, keep
still.
now

ii.
creak into movement.
open separate notebooks to write down your dreams; discuss whether or not
you're in one. become silent.
become

an articulacy of fingertips, all so stutteringly
nerve-bound; wrap each other in unspelled words,

iii.
tell the mad girl singing love songs to stick her head in an oven.
find Truth and Justice and Hope outside of Eden.
decide that the advent of your shared language was unplanned
by nature; that the universe harboured little desire

for further linguistic ex

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November 10, 2012
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