Sta.sh
| mmmmmmmm yes |
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for an ornery gentleman The clouded mind is Kant without his hair extensions, his eyelash curler.for an ornery gentleman by ~SafrinaA
We met last night and he was like Christmas, a motherfucker. Sad,a tree.
Kant told me to be a bad mother fucker. Toss my arms in the oven,
think of the world as a big wound.
Kant is Japanese and has a cremated heart. He asks if im married although
my hands are full of wild sea creatures.
Kant has a smooth back and he is like my husband. I wrap my face in yours
and we giggle because i love you when you are a honey collector,
straw hat touching my nose, when you hum feminist mantras to me, and
me and Kant, we giggle when i tell him, I love my husband.
Squished up in my hands Obama started to write love letters, his mouth is a seed, and women generally are bees. He lays down metaphors like guns on each side of his hips, holds me,Squished up in my hands by ~SafrinaA
and I wonder if love falls like leaves, orbits as my hips, the moment in which you realise:
love happens.
You are holding a license and it tastes like water, pine.
You are thinking of the ways sadness is really, generally, just a nest to hold laughter.
In the moment, you are really just thinking about your cat.
things i do during a nervous.. Stand howling and write love letters to your uterus, I want to tell you, autumn has a lot of wounds and i want to tell my hair to not open as a purse.things i do during a nervous.. by ~SafrinaA
Press your back and fall onto your heart backwards. Open like a purse. You open like a purse. And sometimes,
your neck reaching
onto the minnow, is a little laughable.
They ask me if my dad was a swallow or dove.
I do not know.
I have wounds.
I will somehow become the edge of a cliff. And then i unravelled, my bones were once
a skirt.
My skin was a baby.
I unravelled
and my nervous breakdown met my kitchen, the moon,
my shaking kitchen is a leaf. I may
not be the del
making lists+ But what about us, the universe? I dip my body in pajama bottoms. And that's how women are- sewing drums to their feet.making lists+ by ~SafrinaA
This is hypothetical, but what about us,
the universe? and my breasts want to be transformed;
and apstrophes are a bird's beak.
The universe sends me a letter and it says I AM GOD AND I WANT TO DIE.
It is crazed ferrets, stewed apples, and a dissatisfied ass, but what about us?
First, the grass was my
trousers, the land my pain, and the houses: strands of my hair. Falling off cliffs. If the universe was somehow a swirl of oil in the sea, i'd cut the
edges of my head to become a leaning tree. And the univer
Theseus 'Amazing' is a berth from which a minotaurTheseus by *EmmaSloane
can spring at you; shred a heart or maybe
smelt your dizzy limbs.
This makes me want to avoid anything
remotely labyrinthian (still nervous over
repetitive left turns, or even roundabouts).
Still, you wonder about mazes and you
mention words with unremembered meanings.
You killed the bull. That's what really mattered.
It was amazing, T.
Foreground Four thirty AMForeground by *pseudometry
I am standing in my kitchen
wearing my dark blue dressing gown
building a time machine
from assorted cutlery
and a broken microwave.
I am visiting you
three years ago.
I have calendars for you
with notes written each day:
some are highlighted orange
to show you when to ignore
the things I say.
Others are circled blue,
and on these occasions
I meant every word.
I am smiling at you,
already knowing the day you leave
I will understand
in time, despite what I say.
You look at me quizzically:
bemused by this odd smiling.
It’s four years later:
upsetting things we said
seem like empty noise,
inst
Auf wiederseh'n, sweetheart. i.Auf wiederseh'n, sweetheart. by ~xXheadinthecloudsXx
I was never a good husband.
I can still remember dancing with her, my wife. May 4, 1940. A cold Saturday night. The windows and doors were all open, and the last bits of winter were breathing their last. I could see the moon from where I sat, out in the hallway of my high school, lighting up a Picayune. In my town, it was one of those or a Ramses, but the latter was hard to find and I didn't care very much for it, anyhow. That's all the war left us with. The other cigarettes were sent off to the soldiers. Those, and the fathers, the sons, the brothers. The Sunday afternoons on the porch, the after-suppers.
I could hear a fast jive
| mmmmmmmm yes |
All the best,
Emma
--
“Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why.”
– Kurt Vonnegut
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~~marianne
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