i have a book :)
tiredfoxes: good friday evening everyone! i wanted to stop by real quick before i make my way to bed, to let you all know that i now have a book available for purchase! tired foxes: volume one is a collection of tiredfoxes poems mixed with some original photography. i will only be selling on lulu for a short time, and then will be selling directly through paypal. i’d really appreciate it if...
we belong to churches we don’t believe in. we give them our money. they have high pointed peaks that guide our eyes upward towards a vast expanse of unanswered questions and empty-promising gods, birds being shot down by fat hunters who will give the beaks to their fat wives to wear around their necks, sell the meat to fatter-cats. my mother says she prays because she’s bored, or...
the bulge of my twisted bones my spine sticking up and out through the skin of my back each vertebrae its own little bump that your fingers used to trace with a painters grace is now your greatest fear that i might snap and break that the sound of it will be like a loaded powder keg that only our ears will hear it’s what you turn from now but my skin and its goose bump surface...
little pile of bones
i am nothing more than a pile of flesh and bones laying molded into a shape you might find lovely on a hotel bed waiting i am nothing more than here waiting for you naked and molded into a shape you might find lovely if you ever were to see it
it’s saturday night. i want to put coffee on before the power goes out. it will. it always does, even with the lightest dusting of powdered sugar snow, a breeze, rain that falls too heavily for the storm drains to keep up. but i don’t want coffee. not right now. i have a belly full of sweet potatoes, bits of brown sugar, marshmallows toasted by an oven, a little sprinkling of...
in the snow
our whole bodies are filled up with blood it isn’t just tucked inside our veins, protected, kept warm there our skin holds it all in we are thin as wax paper all over and when it starts to snow our blood freezes too right through wool mittens and thick scarves we spent all of autumn knitting we could ice over our joints could lock mid-stride on a busy subway platform and never thaw...
honey-jazz apple skins
i paint on the skin of the fruit i eat bright pink, yellow and lilac floral patterns on green apples and honey-jazz apples, mealy pears, green-yellow bananas with the little stickers still there orange rinds i am never happy natural gemstone beauty, painted more beautiful flowers on everything and i peel it all back scrape the soft insides out, mash it all with teeth and tongue i save...
i have a book :)
good friday evening everyone! i wanted to stop by real quick before i make my way to bed, to let you all know that i now have a book available for purchase! tired foxes: volume one is a collection of tiredfoxes poems mixed with some original photography. i will only be selling on lulu for a short time, and then will be selling directly through paypal. i’d really appreciate it if you...
it isn’t the death so much that we hate it’s the funeral it isn’t the breath that left you it’s the breath you didn’t take
i have a bit of audio you speaking in spanish, sounding like liquid gold is sliding off of your tongue with sugar drops blended in to every syllable and i don’t understand a word, the words all running together, food coloring drops into stream water in a jar, dancing, floating until they settle pure as swan feathers landing on the top of it you never told me what it meant but...
once again i have signed up for nanowrimo. i do this every year but never end up doing a damn thing. i hope that will change this year. if you’re doing it this year, let’s be buddies. my name is tiredfoxes. xox -tired
i am as old as i feel because time isn’t something real clocks though, are tangible so i’m always late and that one time when i was so late that you and i stayed up all night your fingers inside me begging my body to bleed i grew three new grey hairs plucked them from my scalp with tweezers and we fell asleep exhausted in a pile on the bathroom floor. in the morning you...
hyena-culture asked: interesting words x
morning is slow slow as a bird tangled in a dream catcher slow as honey poured into tea slow as my ability to wake and as hollow as that little bird’s bones especially when i leave behind a bed where you still lay asleep dreaming, slowly
i will buy my own flowers and toast my own white bread, spread the strawberry jam myself too i will be my own crash-diet queen light my own smokes and candles i will hold my own hand but i will love you from afar
before breakfast, slow your movements
addiction shakes you, me black coffee before 7am, the largest mug in the house, the one with the hand-painted flowers smoke before 8am, admire the way your breath and the cloud of smoke hang in the air and disappear like fog into the line of trees out back at least four nameless pills to kill the muscle aches before 9am, swallow them with your second cup of coffee, just a drop of cream, for...
last night i became frost, unintentionally my hand was like a birch tree branch, white and soft hanging out of the back window by the kitchen sink, holding a cigarette between twig fingers and unmoving in the breeze inside my body was warm, blood moving normally, clotting at the places where it’s meant to clot but before long the cold burrowed underneath my skin and crawled along my...
your-etcetera asked: you are such a talented writer, i literally love every piece that you post
things we know
these things we know idle hands will play with anything they can reach, lovers always begin as strangers, and sometimes end that way, too and fireflies will look like spirits if you’re the least bit drunk on wine and their light glow will embed itself into your sight and make everything around you look covered in stars you will sleep too late you will get lost along the way and all of...
the whole world is hazed over, not blurry but smoky and you look so beautiful, i think but i’d rather be asleep
just set fire to these words i’m done i’m done i’m done so long to goodbyes and goodbye to these words set fire to these keys i’m done
at the end of the day sunlight replaced with candles, lamps with pink bulbs when i read back the words i’ve strung together, called poetry i could cry hours of pressing my fingertips flat against the keyboard has returned nothing more than a subtle manipulation of the english language i have created nothing new i have simply bent and twisted something that already was and i expect to...
flowers made of precious metals hang around her neck and other than them she is bare standing with her shoulder back hair back too, curled and tied with ivy vines she’s tiny and this is all that you wanted, isn’t it? fall into her this is her last sacrifice like a last cigarette when the world is falling down pay no mind to her thick watery mascara teardrops just fall into...
my throat is filled with wax right up to the top spilling out over my tongue and teeth and i struggle to speak to breathe or to taste the salt in the air so i light a match from a tiny little tin box and place the flame to my lips, kiss it and wait for it to lick over the wax melting it down to a rushing little river running off into my belly so that i can sing again
romancewithrobots-deactivated20 asked: Hey, so I am in love with your short prompt about the blue shirt. It was kind of awesome. I love your poetry, too, but are you thinking about posting anymore short stories/prompt/prose-y things soon? xoxo
lamp glow and a cup of red tea and honey warm fingertips and poems is how i let love in and breathe love out
i need a map to find my way to you at the edge of the bed, at night when the shades are drawn closed so tightly that moonlight and the street lamp glow can’t find a single crack to seep through and you’re so tiny there perched like something delicate a swan or maybe a powdery moth or the ghost of either i can hear you feel your presence in the room hanging like a thick...
dearest, they’re going to cut me open again. they’ll extend the scar downwards, my skin will bleed more this time, they say, because slicing through scar tissue draws more blood. and i won’t cry, dearest. my eyes will be taped closed, a tube in my throat, and the gas rushing up my nose will have me in a dreamless sleep so deep not even your kiss could wake me. if they hit a...
[authors note]: am i the only one who feels guilty for stealing lines from myself? i mean, i wrote them but i still get that feeling when i recycle them in something new, that i’m doing something wrong. regardless, this is an expansion of a couple of things i posted semi-recently. i am not my spine i am simply as twisted as my spine suggests i be, as straight as my spine allows but...
it’s so cold this time of year raw to the bone and i want to throw a party invite gypsies and faeries who speak no english we can roast summer squash over a flame and dance to music made from nothing but our throats a low moan, a growl just to warm us up and let our muscles relax while we sleep
Day 19 (19/31) from tiredfoxes: bright eyes
dangerousveins: when there is no breeze in the room, no open windows, no movement at all, i wonder why the flame i lit favors one side of the round candle. it melts down at a slope, slanted towards me, towards my bookshelf, warped from all of the rain. and i wonder if staring into it is the same as staring into the sun but i like the little patterns of exploding star-bursts that appear...
the sludge on my windowsill is mostly ash and rainwater and maybe dead skin too but i try not to think about that the wood is splitting from the swell of humidity and sea air i run my fingers across it, against the grain and feel the splinters threatening to pierce my flesh but i keep the pressure managed, just hard enough to feel but light enough to keep from bleeding because the pain would...
sarc0mere-deactivated20120116 asked: your work is consistently good. I'm always glad to see it on my dash.
shake & burn
somewhere a birds feathers are coming loose and the whole world shakes itself hollow until it rises up so high to where the oxygen is just stars
gone are lace and pearls gone are tongues of silver, drops of rain not tinted with acidic hues gone are the warm words of our mothers gone are fathers gone are praying hands, prying eyes gone is heaven and gone is the sky it rested upon gone are birthday candles, skin without scars gone are your baby teeth, baby hairs gone are clouds and trees gone is goodness in any form gone are...
thenudebootysnatcher asked: gaaaaaaaaaaah you are an incredible writer. i really appreciate your work, it inspires me! i wish i could write like you.
i want to be the the spider tangled up in your hair or i want to be your bed sheets tangled all around your legs to be something that makes you struggle for comfort is everything i want
imjohnlocked asked: I really liked what you write. :) We have this group on Facebook that we call "Blurts" where we like to blurt stuff out. I know it might seem kinda weird to you, but I'd really like you join in and share some of the things you write. :) Don't think I'm a stalker though :O :O
char2732 asked: Your work is amazing a true poet at heart. Every poet is unique and true to their work.
fortheloveofaysen-deactivated20 asked: I just saw your Tumblr today, as I just joined yesterday. I was so curious as to where you get your inspiration and what have you done to become such an amazing writer? I used to write, but not as good as you. And I would love to know your secret to becoming a wonderful writer/poet. (:
i am bullet shells and white gold rings with diamonds - casings of things much prettier like death and love meant to last until we become bones, our fingers still clasped together, fused in dust just a casing with skin and little hairs from head to toe that stand up when ghosts pass through me just a casing looking for death and someone to die with still holding bone-hands
isiahsays asked: Hi I just found your tumblr and I love the things you write, their inspiring, and I've been looking so long for some inspiring beautiful things to read. Do you not title all of the pieces? Because there are so many I like but can't call by name. But for now, I just want to say that the poem in which you put all of your demons in, is so amazing.
you’re the kind of gold that turns fingers black & green, that shines and then dulls
if you guys ever want to ask me anything personal/not pertaining to writing or this blog, please head over to my personal blog (http://medication.tumblr.com)! i update a lot and you can really get to know me better over there. i save this space (for the most part) for writing only. you’re all go great and i can never thank you enough for everything.
mikkidecker asked: I don't really have anything to ask you. I was just finding any way to tell you how beautiful your poetry is. I have sat here for the last 20 minutes just reading your thoughts. You mind is beautiful, raw and creative. I think that is a wonderful thing. Thank you for be vulnerable to put your thoughts out here on this site because I have stumbled across it and have been inspired. I hope that...
i like it when you inhale and exhale too which is to say, i guess that i like that you’re alive the sweet smoky shadow of your breath mixed with the way your heart pumps gives me security because we’re all dying everyday, a little bit but your lungs keep pounding away against your ribcage and it’s like a high when you inhale and when you exhale, too
romancewithrobots-deactivated20 asked: Are you published? Sweet Jesus, you better be. I need hand-held portions of your writing to take with me on occasions I lack a computer! You are positively brilliant!
there are so many flowers that i don’t know the names of and i don’t own any fancy rings but i’m still a girl who wants to be loved gritty, girly love - loved
your red shirt.
i meant to tell you how cute you look in your red shirt. it really brings out the road map veins under your skin. i like watching them sort of rush like little rivers right to the tips of your fingers like they’re pointing you somewhere. do you follow them at night when i’m not around? because you stay so stagnant when the sun is out. i find myself wondering where you go. is the...
sitting close with strangers at round tables so close that our bent knees brush underneath drinking cat-hair coffee snapping our fingers at the strong parts of poems marveling at the voices of 16-year-old girls screaming stories our minds couldn’t imagine snapping our fingers at the heart-dropping parts of poems one last sip of cat-hair coffee we take the long route home from the...