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SatelliteIt's one of those too-long nights,
where I'm too awake
and you're too honest.
You tell me you have your fix:
leave a constellation on the walls,
your star gazing eyes glazing.
But no, please--
You are more than a meteor.
More than a flash, crash, burn.
It's like the sky is cracked
and the stars are slipping into space.
The pockmarked, indecisive moon
has turned her back on you, as before.
But I am still in orbit.
Maybe if you are drunk enough, you'll lean on me
slur out solar systems of sadness,
stagger down streets through broken nebulae of lights.
Maybe tell me you're sorry; I was right.
But after so many oblivious shooting stars,
somehow I doubt it.

snippets 11-01-2013
(on blue-lined paper with a dark blue ink stain)

spiderweb memories
and another i will not trust:
swipe his eyes shut
and leave me to hang.

5-01-2013
(on torn printing paper)

sometimes i feel a flicker,
almost like an artificial light before it dies
or perhaps
the sun as it peeks out from a break
between murky storm clouds.

11-01-2013
(on blue-lined paper, aligned to the right)

portrayed without a
voice,
the cardboard barriers are
collapsing silently –
almost as if
the only resistance you
can claim is the
one you create and store
secretively behind
your bitter-brittle collarbone.

17-01-2013
(on the back

Primevaland I don't smoke, but all my poems talk
of cigarettes and ashes because my father smoked
for forty years and now he can't breathe

and I can't breathe.

the chill from the rain seeps through the glass panes
and feels swollen in the loneliness of a crowded train;
the air is pregnant with an umbilical thread
connecting us to something intangible,
something necessary to our being

yet we don't exist at all.

smoke and vapor crawling out our mouths;
we talk because the silence is sometimes frightening,
and because we're searching the dust visible only
in the places where light bends for words that won't disappear

astronomerswhen we're together
dusk is containable; the moon in my palms
and the stars on your ceiling.

we lull the city to sleep
with our theories of life; my tongue curling
into speech.

do you remember,
when Jupiter was a silver wick, lighting its countless moons?

that night,
you balanced a cigarette off your lips,
and I watched the vermillion flame burn life
as a newborn sun;

stars forming,
planets moulding and constellations snaked
above our eyes.

i imagined
what it would be like to be curled
inside the embers – creator and destroyer
of worlds,
so close to your lips.

SehnsuchtOctober again;
and the curtains billow
with broken glass echoes and
Mendelssohn's bride waltzing
to better times

(ein
zwei
drei)

She becomes the rain,
and breaks her own heart as
the sound
drips
right through us.

Honeythief.straw-stitched and hanging
off every word--

violated:

pressing my ears
against your brittle
hives

and smoking you out

To LondonGypsy hopefuls once told me,
there are flights leaving for
any destination
at any given instant

Upon sizing up our town with
a fingernail
did you realise how little
our frustrations were?

I spoke about this ineffable feeling
of stepping out of one tub
and into new water.

The hotel was done up nicely,
chandeliers and polished English accents.
Labels aside they still mixed
milk into their coffee
and had toast with jam and butter.

I was living under the impression
that most of the Internet
came from my same slice of city pie,
conveniently forgetting about
the undersea cables.

I loathed the lack of vernacular
sentence s

sunshine streamingwaking up begins with
i. counting the freckles
   along your shoulders
   like an astronomer maps
   constellations; then get
   distracted and
ii. make love between the
   sheets and perhaps
   roll off the bed and land
   on the cold floor laughing
   with sparkling teeth,
iii. brush them in the
    bathroom sink and
    exchange small smirks in
    the mirror because your
    tousled bedhead is just so
    goddamn
iv. gorgeous, you whisper as you
    close the clasp of my
    diamond necklace and touch
    my bare, unfreckled shoulders.
    the heat of your eyes may
    just undo the zipper of my
    new red
v. dress pooling on the floor, we
    just can't contain ourselves.
    don't make me late for work.

ConfluenceAccording to the old religion, a scribe
must bathe in natural running water
before she draws what is dictated to her,
because writing's just like cleaning a mirror,
she says, it's like rearranging stains
left on wholesome rivers. For three nights,
I drew geometric shapes in the margins;

I had been instructed to take notes on
the underside of snow, and how it colonized
the lithosphere, musically and without hurt.
It felt like a call, but it wasn't a calling.
The paper was made in Himalayan foothills
by a woman who had cleansed knots from fibrous bark
and dipped her bleached hands into boiling water.
I mangled the page into a cottage, then

beari.

there is a bear in the forest. he breathes out ghosts, inhales the most
incredible brilliance - forgive me, i'm selfish about this one
i swear i didn't live before him. he's the loneliest soul,
i wrap my jeweled fingers around his bones because i'm alone within

his skin is pale as aspens
he looks alive in the autumn; grinds his teeth in the summer heat
'don't speak' he'll tell
me. he roams with wild eyes & broken bones, he's

the sweetest hell. he's a cavern in heaven. he's
more human than i'll ever be

his fur is made of afterthoughts & lulling birds
twin stars dangling high above his head
to mask a sound you'd give your life to he

red[the trees were red with winter]
there was oak in his hair, & salt-water in the way he sings
the noon sipped the june from the cage of spring

"you'll be back soon"

i never saw you again

little, crossed fingers
split ends

i never saw you again

they can't be takentheir bleach skin caught my eye
albino white against the wild
hair like bright sky electric in the briars

haloed sister gods shot down like fawn

Polaroiddo not tell me
the caveman sought
his chilled rock cave
alone

that he
without language
passed snapshots by

no

tell me he
shouted in his thickets
crushed his silken fruit
colored red the broken birds

and grass and sky and sea

Here in springIf fatigue could grind down
cosmic energy in the center
of the universe
and in your center

like you are
grinding nutmeg and cinnamon
onto your cappuccino,

stirring
the little cup of storm
with your bent spoon

and eating raw walnuts
with the poet
tumbling

out of the person
in sportive vapors,

this is
what has mesmerized you
to me: being wrapped up

entirely
by the silhouette of your
coming and going,

nurturing the pearl
you have broken off of
a universal necklace,

your button picked off
of the universal sweater
draped around my shoulders

when we tour the little towns
that stand over the Hudson
like haloed hallucinations.

I would h

and I still keep running into parked carsMama,
your baby girl's swimming
in dead of the night
hair, scarred knees,
overgrown weeds, and
countless pairs
of shoes-
with those
orange and yellow wheels
that hug my toes
and heels

I'm running into
parked cars
trying to get
my kite to fly
and hiding under
dashboards
listening to you
fight

I'm rummaging through
boxes of secrets
that Daddy tried
to hide-
solving puzzles with pieces
I'll never uncover
in these thoughts
of you

Browse More Like This

More from ~projectilewordvomit

Envy:Obituaries.
Scanning elderly faces.
Reads, "passed peacefully".

St. Patrick's resolution.There’s a reason why the sting of alcohol
cuts deeper than the initial burn.
Why the clink of glasses resembles
the smash of ceramic on a kitchen floor.

When everyone on New Year’s
touched glasses of champagne and traded resolutions,
you found yours in the bottom of a bottle of vodka.
By the time St. Patrick’s Day arrives,
we’ve all forgotten how we’re supposed to be better people.
We don green hats and cheap strings of beads
and try to convince ourselves we're lucky one day a year.

Someone pours shots at the party
and another raises a glass.
To luck, they say as they fade
like the clover-green of you

Displacement.In the past four years,
it seems I've forgotten how
to say the word 'home'.

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Fill in the blank.

by ~projectilewordvomit, Jan 15, 2013, 10:55:22 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Haiku & Eastern

Sometimes people leave

these why-sized holes in our lives

after they depart.

450

44 40 0

Fill in the blank.by ~projectilewordvomit

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Dear Dad:

Trick question. No answer is sufficient.

--
_{Featured: by =DailyLitDeviations [link]
by *glossolalias [link]}

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Submitted on: January 15
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=minninnewah Mar 17, 2013 Student Writer

"why-sized holes"

Mind-blowing... Just wow.

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~projectilewordvomit Mar 17, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

<3 <3 .-. It feels that way.

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*xlntwtch Feb 5, 2013 Writer

Excellent. That's about all I can say that you didn't write yourself. Thank you.

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~projectilewordvomit Feb 6, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

<3 Thank you. And for taking the time to read and comment. c:

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*xlntwtch Feb 6, 2013 Writer

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~AMWeitz Feb 2, 2013 Student Writer

Possibly the most eloquent, brilliant haiku I've ever read.

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~projectilewordvomit Feb 2, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

<3 Well, I'm honored you think so.

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~bareHa Feb 2, 2013 Professional Traditional Artist

Wonderful, and sad

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~projectilewordvomit Feb 2, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you. Wonderful and sad seem to be such opposing things, but maybe they're okay together.

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`vespera Feb 2, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

"why-sized holes" *sigh*

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