The hollowi.The hollow by archelyxs
He says, you can tell an honest man
by the run of his walk, the stalk of his step.
Laugh, then, no, no, it's not for women.
The honest woman is walking towards you
even when she walks away, he says.
Nothing can be as deep as woman
or as hollow. I cannot be woman:
I am a tangle of shallows
destined to fall the willowish
drowning men until they free.
I am the highway the honest men
use and in being used, I gain permanence.
You, you sloppy cadences and twists,
I strangle. God, you got me heady still.
But my cankerous heart pulses on
and spills lethe on grassy steppes.
His sister's tone is mechanic
and breathy. She talks the night to drowsy;
satellites fill the sky. The cop who writes
us up is the same cop who once had to wrestle
starry seed-pods from my wrists in the performance
of what Emerson calls beads on a string.
Something in his sister's tone makes me think of
peeling the sunburn off my breasts
in filmy strips and his long eyelashes.
The valley belongs to sad runners.
tornczeslaw milosz said "poems should be written rarely and reluctantly, and only under extreme duress."torn by antonfrost
bukowski wrote thousands and thousands of poems.
neruda was an ambassador in every sense of the term.
rimbaud quit after being great.
hemingway went to electroshock treatments, resorting to lightning to summon what once came easily.
a.e. stallings says the sonnet comes to her naturally.
snyder is always happy.
pound said "all my poems were for nothing."
someone says "the long poem."
someone else, "the short poem."
"a poem should contain everything you know."
"a poem should contain a single thing, entirely."
"poetry is for everyone."
"poetry is not for everyone."
in spite of hundreds of writers
telling me what to do
two kids are skipping down the street
and all i want out of poetry
is the means to join them.
Paper CranesYou:Paper Cranes by Lunulae
Your strychnine threaded, wind-braced bones
Taut against your shingled seams
Moon-mountained back, sea-fevered arc:
Your crane-spun neck.
I folded you, origami-style,
Without a snip of scissors
Or whiff of glue;
I strung you up, hung you by a thread
Till you span dizzily, dizzily
Above my bed.
I wished on you, before I slept,
Worn and weary, wrinkled
A thousand cranes, celadon-whey
Slipped quietly, quiverly,
Into the night,
Into my skin:
Paper-winged, I flew
Seamless and unglued.
Current Residence: from desert to desert, currently New Mexico|
Favourite photographer: i like hands.
Favourite style of art: unpredictable
Operating System: I lie here and there.
Shell of choice: armor
Mode of transportation: dancing
Personal Quote: The most beautiful things are those that madness prompts and reason writes. ~Andre Gide