CrepuscularTo the girl teaching herself to fly,Crepuscular by SeaPlume
a hospital bird with soot in her lungs
and patchwork wings,
you only fly for a little while.
If you want to stop hurting,
learn to drift in the silence of the dark
between night and day.
We're all made from broken parts:
bird seed, letters addressed to no one,
things found in old coats,
brittle things like love.
Glass bottomed birds,
we used to make butterfly hands,
until moths swarmed into our throats,
like dancing butterflies; still
we choked on dusty wings.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs,
the same smoke that you'll inhale.
Let go, little bird --
You were made for moonlight,
never for hummingbird lullabies --
Hummingbirds only fly in the sun,
and the sun was never a child.
We were not meant to be angels.
The nestlings, children of the stars,
we glide together on clipped wings
through the dark.
Before GretelI'm alone and hungry.Before Gretel by VeronicaRiles
The ground is coated in dead leaves, sodden from last night's rainfall and cutting at my bare heels as I stumble on. All I can think of is food. Hot cocoa and warm pies, roast duck-
A mirage appears. It must be a mirage and not a house made of food. The walls are gingerbread, the window frames are laced with icing sugar and the path beneath my feet is made of sugar cane.
In a daze I break off a piece of the door. It opens.
“Come inside dearie, I’ve been meaning to make dinner.”
i'm sorry for only writing sad things,but saturday night i wanted to offend godi'm sorry for only writing sad things, by 1nkl1ng
into listening to just one line- needed to drag someone
into hearing the roar between my ears with me.
i'd like to write something you can put music to-
lyrical and pretty. funny. maybe irreverent.
but today what is most real to me
is not laughter. it is feeling short of breath.
empty of poetic language. unfunny. too long
for a limerick. unsuited to sonnets. musical only
in the slamming of my heart. an erratic beat
at best. endings. comparing crises of the mind
to someone throwing up in the bathroom
after too much beer pong and hard rock-
both are shameful to repeat in therapy
and i feel like i cannot stop ruining parties.
needing steady hands for these atlas shoulders
that will not relax. staircases white like
imagined hospitals. thinking i should say
call me an ambulance. crying. not calling
an ambulance. not calling a taxi, i can't call
a taxi, i don't have money for a taxi, holding
my breath. 4, 7, 4. 4, 7, 4. in.
My Spider Wears a Tinfoil Hat Murder is wrong. Murder is usually, most entirely and for the most part extremely bad when it comes down to it. Shockingly enough, people thought murder was so wrong that they made laws about it. You can't murder people is what they say and they say that you can't harm animals either. That doesn't stop one from killing alien species.
The alien in question was tall, black and had eight legs. Eight long, entirely gross and disgusting legs that scurried away into dark corners with its equally—if not more-so—ugly eyes. Spiders sucked and that is really the point of it all.
There are a lot of options on what one can do when they spot one of these alien creatures. Scream is always the first option whether one likes it or not. The louder and higher the scream depends on where one happens to find the spider. If it's on the floor about fifty or so feet away, a quick “ah” is sufficient. However, if you find the s
Zero PenceJasmine left the house and tucked her chin into her winter coat. This was good as it hid her insane mutterings both visibly and audibly. It was also very comfy.
“Um, okay,” she said to herself as she made her way down the street. “Everything’s okay. This morning is okay.” She manoeuvred around smeared dog-shit. “Gross. But gross. Everything’s okay but gross.” A man turned onto the street she was walking on. “Okaaay. Everything’s okay and gross and I’m going to die.” She made fists in her pockets, remembering to keep her thumb on the outside like Toby said. “I’ll fight, but ohmygod he’s big. Why am I so small? Why am I tiny? I’m a borrower. He’s going to kill me. I’m going to die.” The man passed her by. “Dumb. I’m just so dumb.”
Her train of thought started its scheduled journey from I’m Just So Dumb to the station at the end of the line where it rai
The Mythology of PoetryThe Mythology of Poetry
“Mythology is not a lie, mythology is poetry, it is metaphorical.
It has been well said that mythology is the penultimate truth--
penultimate because the ultimate cannot be put into words..
It is beyond words."
― Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth
The fire is still a new thing.
This spark of a young God, kindling
Creation. This flabbergastic fancy
brought to fruition through
a simple rushed rubbing of sticks,
the snicker-snack clacking of stone.
The hairy hominid fingers waggle,
in the growing blaze, throwing up
sacred dancing shadow priests
to consecrate the cold cave walls.
Darkness laid bare, for the first time,
showing all, in flickers of now-glory
not the gloomcasts of old-fear.
This hearth-fire must be protected.
This blessing must be acknowledged.
This flame must not go out.
A sacrifice to hon
to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub.i.
to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub:
in the magazine I own that published your story,
they blurred out the crime scene photographs,
erasing your face and
the full curves of your breasts.
some part of me wonders
if you would have wanted this,
or if you would have liked for
the public to see you in your final moments,
half-soaked in grey-looking water,
your hair in strings, glued to the porcelain,
eyes closed and mouth gaping,
no breath stirring, no bubbles rising.
sometimes when I look
into the depths of my bathroom sink,
I hear your voice
(or what I imagine it to be--
after all, we never met).
you sit on the edge of the toilet seat,
and chat to me about the weather.
I would give anything to hear your real, living voice,
to ask you what you were thinking
as you lowered yourself
into the tub, queen of the tendrils of steam,
and let your lungs deflate like old birthday balloons.
on the news they say that your autopsy
revealed three quarters
of a bottle o