Poetry

Just thought I'd put some work up. Eh, everything in stride, I've just been feeling more creative of late.

The Swingset

Hey! I like you,

and Remember! that time I

Spilled! juice on your

pants?

(feet planted like sugarcane stalks)

(dirty and slow, soles mingling with dust)

(Draaaaag, kick)

(Draaaaag, kick)

(Push off, lunar landing style)

the sky is

Pink!

I’ll race you,

And!

if I could,

Fly!

today, these arms would

Reach!

out over

Your!

tall power lines.

and Hey!

I liiiike you

(Grindddd.)

It was the dirty ones

with no love in their hearts

that took the seat and his chain

and threw them to the cold of the sky

to drape, in death, over cold metal bars

a facsimile of a sham of a swing.

Benthic Trembling Star Voices

If you've never read A Swiftly Tilting Planet by Madeline L'Engle: A) You need to get on that. The library has two copies. And B) Farandolae are these wonderful and quite possible imaginary entities within mitochondria which act as the rythymic instruments which pulsate and create the life within a mitochondria. Oh, and if you aren't a science person, I suppose there should be C) Mitochondria are the energy makers within each of our cells, but which are entirely subject unto themselves, and are the only things within our entire body which contain their own unique set of DNA, separate from ours. Which is really, when you think about it, quite wonderfully amazing.

Farandolae
And waving.
whittling fronds from paper cells,
pasting in eyes, and glass pieces of eight.
Which break upon the teeth.
A reflection of the smiles
strung upon my plastic
menagerie
You.
Sweet, desperate vacuum.
That our efforts long to fill
in every place at once.
For love.
Mito
en
sito, with
Con, taken down and beaten blue,
gasps
of air
for flailing alveoli
dance
splits the goddess of, Dria.
Contractions force the movement
out of the static hands.
Work.
Relative
Related to
Quanta.
Apoptosis forgot to cut
that part of me
the farandolae waving,
the benthic trembling star voices.

Benign

And to the tip of my tongue this falls
you asked, for it to be there
it is the scrap metal of fear
it is the rusty screw and driving nail of my contortions
I am your machine.
There will be thank you’s emitted from high squeaking mouths,
wrenched by guilt, flooded by the naked sap of grief,
soaked in it.
Stunted.
And wilting.
Bitter sand paper grates the skin from my hands
as I rub faster,
to make your tomes
these, the decrepit dichotomies in diatribe,
to make language on pages where no word should trod.
This is the effort of your slaves,
of your queens,
Of the sad sweet cinnamon tales.
Monotony becomes my eyes and my lips and my feet and my breasts
Just to be your machine.
I am once held, yet again released on leash,
forever a prisoner bound,
forever lusting after the sweetness of air.