6 : Fifty Eight

This was meant to be sexier. Then it just got nerdy.

September 25th, please?


The Integral and the Swain

He dabs sweat with his tongue in a sheer summer’s sun
On the cusp of some thought indirect.
The swain, much too young, but a dire heat has spun
A dihedral where planes intersect.

The slope of his eye, slanted grin each imply
Something tangent and best left undressed.
It’s the fourth of July—there’s a fire in the sky,
And its integral flares in my chest.

He takes breath to the flame, forms a derivate frame
For reciprocal equations and lines.
I pawn number for name as I plot out the game
With meridian the function of time.

Now the sine holds my throat—breach the firm asymptote
That had bound our release from reserve.
Silence only provokes need for lips to denote
The full sum of what’s under my curve.

A

A Pill

Eyes blunt,
Words wit-sharp, quipped,
Wrestling with air and meaning
And she's taken.

The sigh comes.
They'd all cry
Laughing for the sight--
The kind of laughter that forms
When thinking of small things
Mixed with vast distances of head-space
And spent-time
And life-years.
The word, "still,"
But she's scared, too.

She rests her bad idea
Quietly beneath her toungue
And lets her words
Dance on top--
They never venture under.
That night she swallows it.

The pillow cradles
The head, one
Dreaming of half-smiling
Quick-tongued tanned fools
That maybe
Could love her
Eventually.
Maybe.

-A

I should be working on my art project or sleeping... but this needs to come out:

Last night went far in solidifying an affection that I'd previously felt to be insubstantial, and at its worst, inconsequential.

How is it that a hopeless situation--and this is hopeless--gives me so much hope? Honestly, I think it's resonating because it provides a good foil to my unfounded Evan angst. Here, HERE is something worth angsting about. Here's beauty, Amy. Here's hope that you can meet something far, far better than Evan Beach and that it's for you.

Thank God he exists.

Waltz

Three chairs three doors three rooms--
A gray-scale image doomed.
I'd call your gaze authentic
If not for the costume.
I'd call you reticent,
But there's no secret spent,
And at the very most,
You love what I invent.
And at the very least,
Consumption's been increased.
I sing a song of six-pence;
This rises under yeast.
It works until we rush,
The night birds leave us flushed.
Three chairs three doors three rooms--
One matter still untouched.

- A

Fuck.

Let me make this clear: I don't. Love. You. Stop expecting me to. It's crushing me.

Spring Forward

I taste the drink;
Supposed to taste your lips
To test this love
Where my conviction slips.
My heart is gagging
On my bathroom floor.
I call her name,
She begs one minute more

It's time, I say--
Don't know how much she hears.
The door's unlocked--
I test my deepest fears.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. So I took Katherine's suggestion... not that I needed the suggestion.

I want to fix the end of the first stanza cause it's such BS. I'm too tired for now.


The Land and the Sea

Sometimes he thinks she's wandered from the sea,
With mermaid tongue, wet slick upon her lips,
And mutable position of her hips.
Once-migrant hands enforced a stern decree
Though signatures now flow more lazily
Like water through her flound'ring fingertips.
When she rests, she dreams of battleships
Which churn her marine world haphazardly.

She barely swims--most days she seems to float.
Psunamis make the most of disrepair,
The waves of poison pooling in her hair.
He lifts her then, a firm, sea-worthy boat--
The watery breath that catches in her throat
Leaves to tangle with his earth-bred air.

My shoes were caked with mud. I changed them, grabbed the cooler from the fridge, and headed back into the warm January afternoon.

No one was there to ask why I had been digging. No one was there to see me open the cooler's lid, turn the bag on its end, and dump the stiff, off-white shape into the ground unceremoniously.

A foot and tail stuck up above the rim of the hole. My frown deepened. I prodded her... it softly with the spade until the body gave a slight bend. I bit my lip. So this was how I'd remember it? My eyes widened, took in the image. A 40-minute hole, holding a distorted, lifeless body; a form on its back, twisting, small claws clutched, yellow teeth visible in a slackened mouth.

A great success.

I had dug my hole. For $3.49 and a crisp winter day, I had a spade and a filthy pair of shoes. I'd uprooted barely six inches, but my arms and legs pulsed from the exertion. The sun was shining over the spire of the looming house.

I think that's when I threw in my heart. Right then. With my back to the world, facing that damn creme-colored paneling and staring at that damn creme-colored lump. And I smiled bitterly when i scooped on the first piles of dirt.

Eventually, the spade was abandoned, and I started to gather the discarded chunks of mud in my palms. I patted them down gently, meaningfully, over the still objects I'd laid in the soil. If I set my hands on the ground, I could still feel the pulsing of my organ shift the dirt beneath.I barely noticed anything for the relief that ran through my head. Freedom. And perhaps I had been graced.

Sometimes, the rocks I laid over the mound can't hold in the rhythm. I hear it when I lay in bed. It courses through my bones when I'm touched. Sometimes, sheer affection wills it back, and I feel.

Mosttimes, I just lay stiff. I clench my fists, slacken my mouth, and go quiet. And the world washes over me. It seeps down through the porous earth above me and makes the numb parts damp. I don't argue. I simply am and I am and I'm not. Because I had dug my hole. And there I left the sudden-stifled vibrancy of life.

-A

Love you, Marissa. So sorry.

Deathbed

Her eyes are sparkling with a restless guilt
As she flounders in her fancy's cove.
She lays her head on pillows that have built
A misinformed and unproductive love.
Sometimes she stills and sinks into the silt
Of what has been, what is, and what should be,
Sometimes she leans against hope's ling'ring lilt;
It's where he lacks both pride and subtlety.
These moments bring relief; she makes a quilt;
She sews him as a flower with her thread.
Her lips would gladly travel where he wilts--
Yet she retires, uprooted on her bed.

- A

Some days, I really think I've lost it. I think that I feel too much and I make up emotions and I create my own crazy expectations for love. Other times, I think I just missed my chance--plain and simple. And I'm paying for it.

KARMA!!! IRONIC SITUATIONS!!! ROLE-REVERSAL!!!

I am an idiot, I am an idiot! That's all that it comes down to! Why am I so stupid!

*facedesk*

Today was bad.

Irony

 

Your heart’s an aching wound of poor design,

A torrid, blatant thing, misunderstood,

And with my hardened bones it did recline.

I never did quite love you when I should.

 

Eyes tend to gaze where fingertips entwine

To shed some light where “might” becomes a “would.”

She clasps your hands and lips and feet and spine—

Still wishing I had loved you when I could.

- A

Well, whatever the hell I was expecting to write, this probably wasn't it. Physics... golf??? Come on, Amy, come on.

This is 100% Tuesday. 


The Ambassador

Animate, polar--
The bass drifts from beneath a street lamp,
All mapped out in my mind.
It sails over the forms:
Stomach fairways, lightning curling along my toes
And your lips like a decal
Clinging to static-sprung skin.

Go ahead, play it--
Take those fingers, golf daringly along the water's edge.
Settle in the dunes, the rough--
I don't know how you'll get yourself out of this one.
The music's flow settles
On your back
Near my hands,
But my mind seems far more concerned with
The din of your hazard breath.

It's funny the way beds rise;
We're all potential energy, black bodies
Buzzing, swinging wildly against whatever seems worth hitting.
That's all nice, you say,
But he's just the ambassador.
The breeze picks up--the storm curls back.
The music drives hardest when it gets dark like that.
Maybe soon I'll meet him, I say.
It all depends on which way the wind is blowing.

-- A

 Thank you, Mr. George Orwell, for the following essay:

Politics and the English Language

What a beautiful assessment of the devolution of academic and political writing. This is exactly why I doubt I'll ever be a literary mastermind--I value this breed of language above the rest. 

Concise is nice, kiddos.

- A (definitely and English major)

Afflation

Boots, ID, back seat of an SUV—
They’re headed to that chichi club on the West End.
Lord knows she could use a bit of salvation.
Sissy steps out of the car and pulls out her cigarettes.
“My God,” she breathes.
Lane inhales the smoke emitted from her friend’s lips,
Combs fingers through her hair, bangs.
They make their way through the tangled bevy of
Heels and hair spray.

A man givers her another drink; her head falls back
In unheeding laughter, toned with the
Pervading frivolity.
A black man’s hands are up Sissy’s skirt
And someone else takes Lane’s waist.
Unsullied, clean, she thinks—
This is as base as it gets. No lace.
No hemline. The bass bears a divine prophet
On it’s wings. Lane prays with her hips, sings with her
Very body.

Yeah, that’s what she came for; that’s Christ in her veins.
She tosses the last of the drink down her throat.
“Let’s move,” she growls. 

- A
 

I had no idea where this was going. Just started to write about mopping.

I'm an interesting person.


Shiner

The coarse strands of yarn trace along wood paneling;
It’s a transient moment of contact, but the stains have already been absorbed.
She lifts the bundled material by the shaft,
Dips it languidly into the sullied water in the bucket by the refrigerator.

“How about that shine,” she’d husked across the kitchen floor.
It had been early morning, her brayed face gazing steadily as the plastic pail filled with suds.
He was framed in sunlight. Thick. Viscous as his growl.
“What the fuck are you cleaning?”
“Just settlin’ a bit of a mess I made.”

One dunk—two. She rinses the flavor of a filthy, squalid home from the head of the mop.
Doesn’t apologize for humming. Doesn’t have to.
The sunlight takes quiet repose upon her bruised face—
She regards the beads of water that disrupt the sanguine, ruddy puddle
Before depositing the yarn on the tile. 

- A

(Real Life) * BSG / (abstract and purposefully vague rambling) = this. 

I have no idea why I feel so very violent today. Either way, PROSETRY IS FUN.

A Bit of Unfinished Business

“You’re a goddamn jackass, you know.”
I’d say it and I’d mean it too.
Hasn’t been a day not full of you.
If I squint hard enough,
I can still make out the Tennessee starlight—
Never guessed I was transparent at high night.
It’s enough to make me throw in my dog tags.

“Shhh,” the cicadas croon,
But I’ll be calm when I damn well please.
If you’d please
Just shove all that “shhhh” you spill
And let’s dance, boy, dance.
You’ve got telephones for singing.

Sooner or later, we’ll sort through this
Fucking mess.
I’ll give you my fucking best
Because I kiss far meaner than I punch.

“Shhh,” your red lips croon.
Sun’s up—high noon
“Hasn’t been a day not full of you.”
Let’s fight, boy, fight—
Leave your knees and elbows stinging. 

Goddamn jackass. 

-A

Hmm. I can suddenly post from work, now. 

WTF, IS Department? WTF.


Duplicity

Sometimes disguises break the skin,
A two-pronged plug that settles in—
Breeches divides I made to hide
The whitest parts of me from sin.
Lies still dangle over sides
Of lips, and spill upon my chin
Where pleas are stifled, though implied,
While the fudged face worn outside
Takes root on virgin soil within.

Perhaps earth isn’t far from sky
Just as “end” begets “begin.”
Sometimes the truth is born with lie;
Duplicity not far from twin.

-A 
 

ZOMG, ALIAS BOX SET SOPRETTY. *ahem*

In other news: "Stop it, fandom!"

I have a problem. Problems. One of which: I love writing poetry that is absolutely meaningless to anyone who isn't me. LA DI DAH. 

Being Something More 

Lips press, destinies set in motion like a turbine
Engine. And even a parting kind of
Love can be softened and smoothed into something more familiar.
All of it results in an affection that is tethered by prophecy and
Nailed to their desks by stifling bands. It’s time to
Do some growing up, he thinks.

Kindred, and lover, and a tired enemy. Their desires boil, empty and
Aching. They don’t kiss anymore and the stifling
Responsibility pumps their blood for them, but they're here.
“Another time,” she thinks. 
 
- A

Must. Keep. Writing.

I'm having a fucking creative outburst this week. What is this, like, three poems? I very want to draw me some sketches, as well.

This poem-plot was shamelessly ripped directly from BSG. Yeah, yeah... this is about as close as I'll ever get to fanfic these days. What can I say... Laura Roslin is love, attitude, and angst all stuffed into a box of inspiration.

*ship*

Madam President

Death stirs slowly in my veins
Like rivers flow into the sea.
The follicles betray my mane,
There’s not much left of me.
I don’t leave, he doesn’t ask,
The time and circumstance agree.
I fail to grasp forgotten tasks;
We’re all that’s left to be.

Read words flounder in my head
Like rivers flow into the sea,
They improvise what should be said—
The time and circumstance agree.
The poison breaks my body in,
Though I smile tenderly.
Tonight, I’ll let the sickness win;
There’s not much left of me.

The politics and pride have passed,
The leaves have fallen from the trees.
I don’t leave, he doesn’t ask.
We’re all that’s left to be. 
 
-A

Must. Write. 

Inspired by the narrative the and the male protagonist's name, I figured I'd give this a shot. This is loosely based on events in Daphne du Marier's Rebecca, and even more loosely based on my own dramatically unfolding life situations. Spoilers?

Manderlovely

Deafening is the smile that paints her kiss.
Threatening is the curve above her hips.
A godly baroness beneath your sheets,
And softer still along your fingertips.
How could you ever forfeit love like this?
Danvers talks of splintered, broken ships,
And now that furious ghost has come to sleep
Within our bed and in between our lips.

It shouldn't change the matter in the least-
She still took the final ship out west.
You asked my hand at breakfast; I said yes,
And she still took the final ship out west.

Perhaps you think I'm bland and without name.
This much I know: I am no blistering dame.
I'm not the witch whose fire absorbed this house,
And watched as your heart fell in blist'ring flame—
She and I will never be the same.
Still, I part your tender lips in vain,
Hoping that my tongue, your fire douse.
I stumble down the hall in tearful shame.

It shouldn’t change the matter in the least—
She still took the final ship out west.
Our love but stopped when I first donned the dress,
And she still took the final ship out west.

So sinking ships do tempt the truth to rise.
I take a dip, go tripping through your lies,
And find a passioned heart suppressed by guilt.
It’s scattered ‘long the Cornish countryside.
I strip you of Manderley's thick disguise,
You strip my chest and conquer my demise.
Upon our trembling foundations of silt,
I let love settle in between my thighs.

It shouldn’t change the matter in the least—
She still took the final ship out west.
The coldest heart ceased beating in her chest,
Before you cast her final ship out west. 
 
-A

Amy needs more than 4 1/2 hours of sleep at night. 

*zombie*

You or Me Today 

Some gazes are especial,
But only for reflections.
They stir up quiet disaffection
As hands gauge the climatology
Of weathered skin.
"It’s either you or me today."
Opposite eyes consider
The expression of another woman.
Either you or me. 
 
- A

A sonnet.

Cicadas

Cicadas sew a subtle summer’s din
And flitter golden wings into the breeze.
Boys breathe sunlight broken by the leaves
And gather sweaty beads upon their chins.
The rugged path leads rugged legs of men
Above the brook and through the gaps in trees
Where cicadas sing: "Fall on your knees--
The wilderness consumes all you have been." 

It’s her wide gaze that causes breath to catch
Upon his lips; she strolls among the thatch
And lives the thoughts he’s sheltered all along. 
Within her native hand, his heart is hatched
With splendid clamor only to be matched
By her softly-spun cicada song. 
 
-A

Katherine + Amy = summer insanity.

We started a project, based loosely on reality and manipulated to our liking. This is easily the most creative thing I've done in a looooong time. It might be shared one day... it might not be. But either way, it's going to be brilliant.

Brilliant, I tell you.