Hi everyone! I just wanted to let you know that I will be having surgery tomorrow and will be in the hospital and away from an internet connection for about a week. I will hopefully be able to check in with my phone here and there if the wireless is cooperative but I can’t be sure of that just yet. I look forward to returning to this blog and my personal blog as soon as possible and I...
to my readers
you are the letters mashed and faded on my keyboard, my typewriter. you are the breaths and the whispers of poems at 3am, forcing my bare feet onto cold hardwood to fumble in the shadows and moonlit darkness of my bedside table, and you are the pen i find there, the paper. you are the lines i throw away, the lines i save in folded pages between my mattress and box spring, the secrets, the lies. ...
these hands are mine
these hands are my hands and these fingers and the nails on their tips like flower petals these thighs are my thighs and these hipbones above them holding up my short skirt with flower petals printed onto it these hipbones are my hipbones and i adorn them with as much or as little fabric, lace and stretched cotton as i care too this waist is my waist and this belly is mine, too if my...
my inspiration is born of the love between the thin muscular width of your waist and the negative space between my thighs.
praxis89 asked: I loved that prose piece. It's so imaginative and made me smile. Great job :)
isiahsays asked: Hahahaha! I love Reasons to Drink, and I love how you aren't afraid to depict sex in your work. Sometimes it gets gritty! You are so fabulous, and I get inspired every time I come to your tumblr. Thank you and keep it up!
moonlightsonata12 asked: How did you get into poetry? Your style is absolutely amazing.
la-blah asked: im in love with your brain its magical
when i write, i like to bend gravity and become drunk on imagery and tip my head back and take shots of seawater while bits of coral scrape my throat. i tend to fill the skies with candy and build the moon out of maggots, dripping down over the earth on silkworm threads. i write acid onto my tongue, letting it burn right down my spine and turn my skin into gold leaves. i want everything to feel...
there are other things to do, you know, than count pulse points on your lover’s body. you can count their taste buds, too.
reasons to drink
i cannot sleep i am bored i bought a net hat or that boy talked to me today, turned my cheeks pink i finished a poem and it’s my birthday christmas is coming it’s been hours i snapped a photograph, snapped my gum i blew a bubble i blew a new guy i blew it with the last guy i still can’t sleep and the house is freezing broken bones and broken spirits broken bottles,...
our catatonic winter skin turns blue in december, dusty blue like powder, like shimmering star-bursts our overused frost bitten skin turns purple in december, cracks like concrete, bruises up like our blood has nowhere left to go and our frozen fingers with fingernails that die and fall off like petals, like seeds will spurt roots and bloom us soft spring skin already suntanned, all ready for...
i will hold your tongue down through the fiercest windstorms you remind me of a feather but i will never let them see you fly
if you take hold of one side of the sky i will grab the other and we will pull, split it right down the middle and watch burning stars and clouds and frozen raindrops fall to the earth we’ll watch angels and hummingbirds and planets like peppermint candies spill from the tear and you will smile at me from the other side of the galaxy while meteor dust burns your eyes red and we...
when it is quiet enough to hear the earth settle, a leaf land on frozen ground at the base of an oak when it is so silent that shooting stars can be heard whispering all of our wishes out into the sky before they burn out when everything falls muted, a whole world dipped down into the sea where its eardrums are pressurized and sound is only a cold rush it is then that i hear your voice as you pass...
got questions or comments? leave them here and i will chat with you all in the morning. hope your friday was fabulous. check out the book i have for sale, too!
the-draft-blog: WRITING PROMPT #7: MUSIC Write...
the-draft-blog-deactivated20111 asked: Your writing is fantastic. I particularly like the line "the same liquid color of the sparkling green and shattered beer bottles that make the alleyways glow at night". I just posted a new writing prompt. I'd love to see what you make of it.
maybe my fingers are stiffening tonight as i try, so hard to force a poem off of them, onto the page let it roll out of my throat a poem that is stuck, congealed to the sides of my windpipe like thick and sweet sugar syrup, dried crystals of it cutting the skin there so that when the poem finally emerges it is bloodied imperfect and i could let it sit a few hours, or a day more drink...
an image (two)
you sit in the corner of the coffee shop, the java joint, your paint-splatter palace where your eyes change color under the warmth of the strange shadow light that peaks in through the pink-icing frosted windows you’re in the corner because here you can watch, sweetly sweeping your eyes over the crowd, your lashes twitching and catching glittering dust that dances in the sunlight sea you...
when you left i took my skin off and it felt like a loosening of my lungs a breath i’d been holding onto for days my veins and my muscles relaxed my blood thinned and poured out over the kitchen floor where you had just stood i shivered, marveled at the inky tattooed covering of myself discarded on the linoleum and i spoke your name like a lie it echoed and i heard your tires...
if i could, i would cover your body in melted gold from the rings recovered from the dusty jewelry boxes of widows and press you to a clean white canvas, let you see what your shadow looks like, lurking these hallways, maybe then you would see the difference between happiness and hanging on maybe then i’d be used to your figure and your haunting wouldn’t scare me anymore
i want a riot
i want a riot i want more noise than my head can handle no one screams loud enough anymore and i just want to know that we’re all still alive…
it drags on
when the wind changes direction and forces the smoke that i just exhaled back into my lungs that is when i regret my decisions the most it’s like i can’t let it go and i wish i’d never taken that first drag of you
i hope that all of my american readers have a wonderful thanksgiving day today. have fun and be thankful for everything you have!
We humans unravel gently. It starts with a tear in our skin, like a loose thread in a sweater that our parents, their parents and theirs before them had knit for us. It’s passed down and our job while we’re here on earth is to keep it clean, intact and ready to pass on to our children someday, with all of its original buttons still sewn into place. But sometimes the faux-gold paint flecks off...
the dust-ceiling started to fall in slow motion toward her looking like meteors or shooting stars raining down in colors she’d never seen before shades of purple and pink and under water coral that made her eyes tear at the sight at the stinging their brightness left her with she remembers now trying to taste them like little pixelated sugar cube snowflakes on her tongue but only feeling the...
It started, the morphine, as a warm pinch of nerve ending pleasure at the bend of the arm, where the skin is softest and the needle taped down there was the smallest they made and still almost too wide to trust inside butterfly veins. It spread from there like ink through the blood stream. It was slow and warm and at some spots felt rough like salt crystals scraping gently against tender...
my heart is a chunk of needy muscle, such a lonely ampersand
a wardrobe filled and overflowing with expensive silk scarves she could warp her whole body but she never leaves her bedroom
my body is a wall grey and concrete with dips and cracks the claw marks of the city but i want bright, beautiful bunches of daisies and lilacs and dandelions to bloom up out of my scar tissue with my veins as their roots, my skin their soft soil i want my belly filled up and swollen with melon and with sunflower seeds that split open and burst long stems out through my pores my bones...
i commented early in the night on the size of your bed, the mattress seemed to be a sea stretching for miles across wooden oceanfloorboards and i became its waves, your current later in the night, the whiskey rocked my head and knocked our hips loosened your lips magnetically towards each others, accidentally away and back again a compass of sorts, your fingertips the arrow hitting...
Mixing Spoon Beats
He would buy two-dollar cooking pans that weren’t as rusted as the one-dollar ones from the thrift store where his mother worked. He would buy large pots for boiling whole chickens and small pots for rice and pots with missing handles and Bundt pans for birthday cakes. He bought wooden mixing spoons too, and metal whisks and he had one drum stick his mother had found in the odds and ends...
you once called me alcoholic cunt. such a simple sweet slut. if your tongue were a bit more sour i’d suck it like hard candy until it bled out like artificial sugar real fruit flavors but i can never wait long before biting down
isiahsays asked: Well I especially love Old/Young. The relationship between the two in that poem was so beautiful and so was the imagery in a grotesque way. They were beyond close and so in love throughout the weary, painful air of the poem. It was such a stressful situation.
i feel so sick it’s like you’re living in my mouth your skin is soft, slimy, i choke and you burrow - cutting out chunks of my tongue and crawling inside i can’t speak. and you know. and you’re happy for it. you vibrate so much it’s like i’m singing when all i can actually do is bleed and feel nothing but the heat of you stuffed inside my mouth
it’s getting colder and some nights i wish the air would dip down so low that my body and my mattress would become one, iced over and frosted together my hair breaking off and the tip of my nose, cracking i want winter so badly i want an solid excuse not to wake
think of all the roads and the stars, all of the dead birds whose bones are buried in the sand and all of the fire ants who carried their meat away, their eyeballs and their hearts. think of all of the times we fought and the times we swore we’d never glance at one another again. think of all the secrets we still keep, how we still hum the lullabies our mothers sang to us each night before...
isiahsays asked: Do you have a favorite piece? Or is your favorite piece always the piece you just wrote? Do you ever think "Wow, I'll never write a poem as good as the one I just wrote" ? I sometimes worry that I won't be able to "top" myself. Do you ever have that fear?
i take the weight of you onto my body with a smile and i eat your words for breakfast. vomit bloody poems made from them over the edge of my bed before succumbing to the white wine and breathing in, passing out in a puddle of your mashed tongue and venom (i’ve got a sweet tooth for it). i think i’ll carry on just like this for as many sun ups, moon ups, as my thighs can bear.
jeugd asked: I watched your spoken word video. Really cool. I can definitely see some Henry Rollins influence in there. Hopefully, that's a compliment to you.
About The Tired Fox
Hi everyone! I’m glad you’ve found your way to my little cabin in the woods here on Tumblr! You can all feel free to ask me anything you’d like to know in my ask box but here is a quick little bit about me! My name is Tracy Ann and I’m from Boston. I love making lists. I use the word ‘and’ a lot in my writing. And in my speech. I went to school for...
i get so fucking confused when it comes to beauty because i don’t see it in places where it’s meant to be seen. i’m made to feel dirty for wanting the world to be drenched in acid rain and mud and dust. i want to watch bodies explode and their bile and blood mix and smear the concrete walls. i like girls with tattoos. hell, i like girls. and boys with unruly facial hair,...
the only reason i write is to keep my fingers busy, so i don’t smoke a whole pack of cigarettes in a hour, so they don’t wander over my breasts and down toward my hips where they’ll instinctively try to mock the patterns hers used to trace. i only write to keep my fingers warm, moving so they don’t freeze over and fall off or much worse, turn blue under the nails. ...
i apologize for pressing my body into your life. imagine if you couldn’t peel me off. how terrible a thing that would be because i’m all thighs and neck kisses and if you think for one second that i wouldn’t try to stay stuck here against your breast bone, you’re wrong. you’re a goddess and i want to live in this fort built from books that you’ve constructed...
aristotlelovewords-deactivated2 asked: i really enjoy your poetry a lot! :)
flirt with winter
you try to catch stardust girls with your tongue like they’re snowflakes each one so freezing-cold-unique but they all burn you just the same
sex and late-night poetry
i have spent hours watching the moon out of the dirty windows of third floor apartments while nameless lovers slept, snored naked in a powdery smoke of darkness behind me where the hallways were unfamiliar and i’d trip on loose wooden floorboards trying to make it to a clearing to smoke a cigarette and think of a way to compare my bones to the stiff, colored ends of used painters...