06-06-2018, 09:22 AM
edit 2. probably the last one. title is staying as July, it has connotations to it (thick-summer-inertia-langurous--) that i can't see off.
The rains bear gifts of starlight by their long arms,
but there is no youth in the stars' breaths.
Only melancholy, thin-bodied, classical, and sharp,
and the promise that it always be beautiful.
Blood breaks in the bath, wave reduced
to a shy finger in lukewarm water. Gorgeous, pink,
too peaky, too fine a color for her brand of violence,
she needs it to be elegantly clever. Obscene.
The sky opens, laughing gaily, and she could shut it up
right now: she could climb out, turn around,
point, and beat the world to its knees. But first
she needs to be clean.
She washes her face over the sink, and the water burns,
and her heart breaks. It is a shallow break, snapped only
for the photographs that fail to catch
the slow-motion inversion of her ribs, her lungs.
It is July when she surfaces. Time to reinvent.
Pressured ever inwards by a fuck-my-life whisper-
slash-scream, breathless, small,
she goes outwards, stretching, wanting.
edit 1. (tentative title(s): Look At Me, and Grieve; Grieve; Elegance, and Cleanliness, in July; I am really, in retrospect, terrible at writing poems that inspire appropriate titles. Or perhaps just generally poems.)
Blood breaks in the bath, the wave a shy finger
in lukewarm water. Gorgeous, pink,
too peaky, too fine a color for her brand of violence,
she needs it to be obscene. Elegantly clever.
The rains bear gifts of starlight upon their long arms,
but there is no youth in the clean breaths of the stars.
Only melancholy, thin-bodied, classical, and sharp,
and the promise that it will be beautiful.
The sky opens, laughing gaily, and she could shut it up right now,
she could climb out of it, and turn around,
and point, and beat the world to its knees.
But first she needs to be clean.
She washes her face over the sink, and the water burns,
and her heart breaks. It is a shallow break, bluntly displayed,
snapped only because she needed a heart to break for her,
and hers was the closest, and most convenient.
Because her lungs collapse, pressured ever inwards
by the breathlessness of a fuck-my-life whisper-slash-scream,
she goes outwards, stretching, wanting, always
original.
Blood breaks in the bath, the wave reduced
to a shy finger in the lukewarm water. However gorgeous,
pink is too peaky too fine a color for her brand of violence,
she needs it to be obscene. She needs it to be clever.
The rains bear gifts of starlight upon their long arms,
but there is no youth to the pure breaths of a star.
There is only melancholy, thin-bodied, classical, and sharp, and time.
The sky opens, laughing gayly, and she could shut it up
right now, she could climb out the sky and just. Leave.
But first she needs to be clean.
She washes her face over the sink, tap smelling like schnapps,
peach, liquid courage because the abstract type is uninspired,
and the water burns, and her heart breaks. It is a shallow
break, bluntly presented, resting on the laurels
of a breathless fuck-my-life whisper-slash-scream.
Because her lungs collapse inwards,
she goes outwards, stretching, wanting, always
The rains bear gifts of starlight by their long arms,
but there is no youth in the stars' breaths.
Only melancholy, thin-bodied, classical, and sharp,
and the promise that it always be beautiful.
Blood breaks in the bath, wave reduced
to a shy finger in lukewarm water. Gorgeous, pink,
too peaky, too fine a color for her brand of violence,
she needs it to be elegantly clever. Obscene.
The sky opens, laughing gaily, and she could shut it up
right now: she could climb out, turn around,
point, and beat the world to its knees. But first
she needs to be clean.
She washes her face over the sink, and the water burns,
and her heart breaks. It is a shallow break, snapped only
for the photographs that fail to catch
the slow-motion inversion of her ribs, her lungs.
It is July when she surfaces. Time to reinvent.
Pressured ever inwards by a fuck-my-life whisper-
slash-scream, breathless, small,
she goes outwards, stretching, wanting.
edit 1. (tentative title(s): Look At Me, and Grieve; Grieve; Elegance, and Cleanliness, in July; I am really, in retrospect, terrible at writing poems that inspire appropriate titles. Or perhaps just generally poems.)
Blood breaks in the bath, the wave a shy finger
in lukewarm water. Gorgeous, pink,
too peaky, too fine a color for her brand of violence,
she needs it to be obscene. Elegantly clever.
The rains bear gifts of starlight upon their long arms,
but there is no youth in the clean breaths of the stars.
Only melancholy, thin-bodied, classical, and sharp,
and the promise that it will be beautiful.
The sky opens, laughing gaily, and she could shut it up right now,
she could climb out of it, and turn around,
and point, and beat the world to its knees.
But first she needs to be clean.
She washes her face over the sink, and the water burns,
and her heart breaks. It is a shallow break, bluntly displayed,
snapped only because she needed a heart to break for her,
and hers was the closest, and most convenient.
Because her lungs collapse, pressured ever inwards
by the breathlessness of a fuck-my-life whisper-slash-scream,
she goes outwards, stretching, wanting, always
original.
Blood breaks in the bath, the wave reduced
to a shy finger in the lukewarm water. However gorgeous,
pink is too peaky too fine a color for her brand of violence,
she needs it to be obscene. She needs it to be clever.
The rains bear gifts of starlight upon their long arms,
but there is no youth to the pure breaths of a star.
There is only melancholy, thin-bodied, classical, and sharp, and time.
The sky opens, laughing gayly, and she could shut it up
right now, she could climb out the sky and just. Leave.
But first she needs to be clean.
She washes her face over the sink, tap smelling like schnapps,
peach, liquid courage because the abstract type is uninspired,
and the water burns, and her heart breaks. It is a shallow
break, bluntly presented, resting on the laurels
of a breathless fuck-my-life whisper-slash-scream.
Because her lungs collapse inwards,
she goes outwards, stretching, wanting, always
to flourish is to fall, dust before the wind