Little FuryThe storm throws you to my door, drenched and bloodied, god-light dimmed. The crest of the hill is underwater. You have no boots.Little Fury by Concora
Morning dawns cold, clear, a watery gold. You are gone.
FragmentsI call them fragments, the parts of me that were too exhausted to stay. He calls them flecks because I am a flake. I wish I was a flake. It sounds prettier than being a fragment. Flakes are like snow. Soothing, falling from the sky on the tip of his tongue that melt and disappear. Fragments are archeological findings of a scarred past we really should not remember.Fragments by UntamedUnwanted
I want to remember my scars. So I am a fragment.
I draw on my legs. When my skin dries out, I use my index finger as a pencil and draw what the clouds are trying to tell me. Sometimes it’s a dog, and sometimes it’s a bear and sometimes it is his face looking at me disapprovingly.
That is when I stop drawing.
At night, when the rain falls, I sit at the bay window and pretend to write stories whilst he pretends to sleep. “What are you writing?” he will ask in his asleep voice. “A funny story.” It is not. It is a pale, scary story, and it looks like my skin. “Were you dreamin
Love as an AsthmaticI snatch my breath after we kissLove as an Asthmatic by UntamedUnwanted
because I want to feel you
in my wheezing, useless lungs
not just a craving
a desperate need
in the physical urge
to breathe you in,
make your mystical secrets
a part of my body.
She Had Love at One Pointthere was the rustShe Had Love at One Point by WordWeight
sleeping on the chain
she wore on Sundays
outside of Church
they told her
it was too
undeserving of her
she wore it
Survivalist NewsletterDear Survivalists,Survivalist Newsletter by ProtoRepublic
In light of the recent remission of people
we are writing you today.
You see, the exit plans are only provisions
for leaving a beautiful sort of language
of fossil records,
like entire rogue planets in red bloom,
as warnings between the architecture
of a fresh wreckage.
And the most romantic spin is that we've succeeded
but only briefly-
of a scenario of beached whales;
the reckless communism of the sun.
To those who are receiving this:
God has been missing for several years
and a body was never found.
Our advice is to desecrate your atlases
as a sacrament to whatever it is
that we've pissed off this time.
Cut them down, cut them and spread them
across the lamp, the walls,
the threshold of your shitty apartment
and take drugs that remind you of the people
you once were
because everything is wonderful
but only on paper.
And on paper we must remain,
upright and angry. We must remain
with our music and stories. We must remain.
Our assurance is in your s
.i hear the owls chime in the woods. by oaklungs
and i hear what the trees reply, and perhaps that's
why i am finding myself outdoors, barefoot in the earth at one in the morning
trying to bury my feelings in the dirt
(i can't decide if i need you in my life so i can get better, or if i need you to stay out of it so i can get better)
This is living,there is eighties music hitting ourThis is living, by introverted-ghost
teeth faster than the
tambourine tongues we keep
snaking between caviar
cavities; and it is in these moments
that epiphanies are born
and lost between fish-bone souls.
the polar opposite of translucencycradled in the echointroverted-ghost
of a cloudburst,
the earth curls invisible fingers
about my achilles' tendon
she cries that i am not
intended for the clouds,
that my mind must not wander
between their susurrous concaves
furious with her insistence,
untether myself from the soft,
diaphonous comfort of the heavens
down into the weight of gravity.
listless green blades welcome my soles,
stimulating a tickle,
a sneeze; i never have done well
she is calling for me,
soft-tongued and crisp in her
& i am sorely tempted
i am not for the soil.
she becomes my inhale;
my alveoli shudder
beneath her force--
i am not for the air, either.
i stand beneath her onslaught
until she tires,
her molten heart beating beneath my toes;
unable to woo me with her facets,
cloaking me in one last attempt,
a final shadow.
my pores bloom
& i r
the summary of a half-womanI am here, in the quiet stages allowed by grief for myself and what I am losing, but that is not enough for passers-by who mistake the smoke of my imagination for the smoke of a pyre. My soul whispers often that they may be right, that perhaps my imagination and loneliness is a pyre of my own making, that I am scorching myself from the heels up into hell and back, but my mind remains unconvinced and stubborn in her ways.introverted-ghost
The cold is in my bones in these summer months, a contradiction of nature and self, but I have delved too deeply to warm myself with the fire that burns within me; it is ice cold and reddening, this fire-- another contradiction, but perhaps that is what I have become. The awakened, self-aware contradiction of peace, helpfully contained within an introverted skeleton and puckered goose-flesh that obediently walks the paths etched for it in the early lights of the dawning days.