what match is the coiled coyote when facing the fox on a blood scented trail? her best bet is to burrow and let her pups suckle at her split breast once more before the darkness in her den caves slowly in around her, as night settles, and her ears let go their point
i’ve never prayed but i’ve faked it by moving my lips and reciting her name
filler. i’ve picked up some tips like chew ice to trick your teeth and smoke cigarettes to add taste to your tongue, keep your fingers trained on the keys and smile through the violent growl of the thing that grows deep down in the cavern you’ve carved out for yourself with hollow wooden spoons
On the rust-colored shore where the lonely sands have been bind-blown to rippled perfection, he travels slowly, head down and eyes red. The sun, bloomed full. The clouds, a stretch of pure white, tight canvas. The sea laps whispers of tin-salt against his matted ankles where the grey and black of his fur have begun to glow with the bright shades of his bone-chipped blood. His ears point...
I'll Make Jewelry of You, Yet
i’ll bead pearls onto your cigarette smoke strings and hang them from my ears
we laid to rest you and your xylophone ribcage, your blackened teeth, and chipped off little pieces for all of us to wear around our necks. i listen for the metallic sound of it bouncing up and down over the iron plate protecting my heart when i walk.
The Tattoo Artist
good rainy morning to the poetic painter, the fading moon, the melancholy mothers whose babes lay fidgeting in fits all night, good rainy morning to the tattoo artist and his pup who is now licking his face and waking him with a curly smile good rainy morning to the tear-drop puddles of silver and mud good rainy morning to the love that i haven’t given up on even in the dusty grey of a rainy...
I have a new blog!
thefoxbones: Hi guys and lovely, lovely ladies! My best friend and I have created a brand new blog to share (what we feel to be) our hilarious tidbits that we bounce back and forth all day via BBM. There will be pictures, conversations, rants and raves and the occasional video about how idiotic the world is. I would love you all for eternity if you would follow. :) Gnome Doors
is there nothing more saddening than the hollow cracking of an egg against the granite counter top, on sunday morning when the recipe calls only for one?
what’s behind my eyes that keeps you all away? it isn’t an emptiness, i can feel the well of tiny oceans there the emerald buoys, the red spider leg veins creeping toward the shores of my cheekbones what do you see that i don’t? i watched a boy in the sand toe-ing over hard-shelled beetles that buzzed loud circles on their backs and i keep that memory, so i wonder if you’re feeling the...
ship in a bottle
staygolden-poets: tiredfoxes: i want to be naked and alive i want you there constantly with stories about star-shine lights in hot bars why can’t you hold me anymore? i don’t need you inside me darling, i want it but Mae says to avoid temptation unless you can’t resist it and Marilyn says give a girl the right shoes and she can conquer the world you’re so heavy you’re like the...
if we were really nothing more than patterns we find on bedroom ceilings and bloody cuticles to chew on, suck at, our words would be lost out here. we should give ourselves more credit. if we can find the poetry in between these walls imagine, imagine what we could find out there if we somehow learned to live!
How We're Born/How We Are
strangers may see the way my top teeth balance lightly on my bottom lip and they may see the way my lashes splay across my cheekbones like insects legs and those strangers may think, inwardly, while smiling that this is the way my body has decided to settle but they can’t feel the struggle between my breath and my bones to keep it all just so
sing. she thinks sometimes that she may be too old for looking glass light shows mouthing mimic-rock into her hairbrush and thrusting her jagged hips toward imaginary ex-lovers from the height of a dust-stage in the middle of an amphitheater but when she sees them, watches the smiles spread over their ghost faces she knows there’s no age limit to bedroom stardom
if your hands had been made of rope, of scarves, of silk, i might find it easier now to mimic the feeling of them wrapped tightly around my throat but without the calloused pads of your fingertips, pressing, i just can’t seem to find it, can’t seem to get there at all
i am so close bite lip, hold breath so close to crying that the way the pillow is pressed into my throat choked off, closed up feels good so close chew tongue, fill lungs so close to letting go baptizing my breasts in salt
Do They Serve Beer In Hell?
i could fuck you right now with eloquence, weave the words through you painlessly, a silver thread and a needle so fine it wouldn’t even draw blood, i could sprinkle each line with sugar to keep the sting from reaching your nerves, and i tried, believe me i tried but there’s no other way to say that when you show up in hell i hope they’ll replace your tongue with the eggs of...
An unspecific Friday and it’s April, that much i know. Waits under the needle, spinning round and spitting sulfur through the speakers and me, sweating through my new dress turning cotton-blend lilies into tulips with the yellow from my pores nicotine and anxious glands while I wait for May. The record skips and begs to be reset.
He Didn't Expect To Be A Poem.
[author’s note: a response to an ex who asked that i not write about him anymore.] before you slip between her pumpkin scented sheets and feel the crunch of paper leaves at the foot of the bed, before you slide your tongue inside of her and taste the honey wetness, a hint of maple before you even cross the threshold of her doorway, rimmed in twinkling lights, starry magic bulbs, hold your...
heartofbutterflies asked: I've been unable to capture my thoughts on paper in any patterns worth keeping. Any suggestions for getting the juices flowing or finding a subject I can get juice out of?
i am through with writing in bright colors give me greys so deep that i am out of breath and words by the time i reach their ends dark tunnels like the spiral of your intestines wrapping all up in knots around your useless tongue
You, The Murderer.
Picture this. Smell it, breath it in. It’s you and just you. Singularly you in a damp alley where rain-fur cats and little beady-eyed mice make a mud river across the toes of your boots. Bar lights like neon moons and tobacco-stained monster’s teeth are tar-stars. You and just you and maybe an electric buzzing and some headlight waves washing over your face. In the distance there...
What Death Smells Like
we, on a glass plate with rose hips, lemongrass and minted-menthol cigarette tongues are the combination of scents from under his grave, where rock is dust from the weight of the earth and dust is the only air he’ll know now