20 October 2010 @ 11:35 pm
teach her to follow the words  
I've been on a poetry kick something fierce the past couple of days. Poetry is one of those things I always wish I could do. Poetry and lyrics. When they're done right they make words mean so much, they make it beautiful and sometimes they can make it hurt, but they'll make you love it when they do.

I'm a sucker for words, is the thing, always and all the time. It's why Pete Wentz has a special place in my heart, and why Crush is always right by my bedside. It's why I write, and some days, it's why I do anything at all.

My point here is:


Have a poem I just recently found! And feel free to show me one you love, too!

by Nicole Blackman

I'll teach her to be whole, to be holy )
Current Mood: calm
Current Music: mumford and sons
04 March 2010 @ 03:20 pm
we are all just trying to be holy  
I am deeply, deeply tempted by [ profile] sharp_teeth.

There are two movies I remember watching when I was little--the Princess Bride, and one of the Nightmare on Elm Street movies. I don't know what, or why, or how, but horror has always been one of my favorite genres. There's something in there, holding your breath, waiting for what happens next. It's kind of like being in love. You know what's going to happen next, you know it's going to end badly, but you keep holding your breath and hoping for something different, this time, something better. And sometimes you survive, right? You get out, get away from the monster, and you feel bulletproof, you get back to normal, head held high and spine straight, and the sequel starts, throwing you right back to where you thought you'd escaped from.

I'm all kinds of heartbroken about the MCR news. It's a sad, sad day when Gabe Saporta's band is the stable one, you guys. A sad, sad day. I'm calculating the chances of me getting my homework done and surviving the mocking if I watch Iron Man again. Sometimes, you just need super smart billionaire playboys blowing shit up to make you feel better, you know?

Anyway, the poetry thing is still going around, so: Richard Siken. This dude, I swear, is the only one besides Pete Wentz who can make me feel his words, no matter how many times I read them. Also his stuff is so very Dean is adds extra slayage. Normally, I would cut something this length, but, well, I can't find a place to do that, I guess.

Snow and Dirty Rain
Ricard Siken

Close your eyes. A lover is standing too close
to focus on. Leave me blurry and fall toward me
with your entire body. Lie under the covers, pretending
to sleep, while I'm in the other room. Imagine
my legs crossed, my hair combed, the shine of my boots
in the slatted light. I'm thinking My plant, his chair,
the ashtray that we bought together
. I'm thinking This is where
we live
. When we were little we made houses out of
cardboard boxes. We can do anything. It's not because
our hearts are large, they're not, it's what we
struggle with. The attempt to say Come over. Bring
your friends. It's a potluck, I'm making pork chops, I'm making
those long noodles you love so much.
My dragonfly,
my black-eyed fire, the knives in the kitchen are singing
for blood, but we are at the crossroads, my little outlaw,
and this is the map of my heart, the landscape
after cruelty which is, of course, a garden, which is
a tenderness, which is a room, a lover saying Hold me
tight, it's getting cold.
We have not touched the stars,
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back
to the hero's shoulders and a gentleness that comes,
not from the absence of violence, but despite
the abundance of it. The lawn is drowned, the sky on fire,
the gold light falling backward through the glass
of every room. I'll give you my heart to make a place
for it to happen, evidence of a love that transcends hunger.
Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars
for you? That I would take you there? The splash
of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube? We've read
the back of the book, we know what's going to happen.
The fields burned, the land destroyed, the lovers left
broken in the brown dirt. And then it's gone.
Makes you sad. All your friends are gone. Goodbye
Goodbye. No more tears. I would like to meet you all
in Heaven. But there's a litany of dreams that happens
somewhere in the middle. Moonlight spilling
on the bathroom floor. A page of the book where we
transcend the story of our lives, past the taco stands
and record stores. Moonlight making crosses
on your body, and me putting my mouth on every one.
We have been very brave, we have wanted to know
the worst, wanted the curtain to be lifted from our eyes.
The dream going on with all of us in it. Penciling in
the bighearted slob. Penciling in his outstretched arms.
Our Father who art in Heaven. Our Father who art buried
in the yard.
Someone is digging your grave right now.
Someone is drawing a bath to wash you clean, he said,
so think of the wind, so happy, so warm. It's a fairy tale,
the story underneath the story, sliding down the polished
halls, lightning here and gone. We make these
ridiculous idols so we can pray to what's behind them,
but what happens after we get up the ladder?
Do we simply stare at what is horrible and forgive it?
Here is the river, and here is the box, and here are
the monsters we put in the box to test our strength
against. Here is the cake, and here is the fork, and here's
the desire to put it inside us, and then the question
behind every question: What happens next?
The way you slam your body into mine reminds me
I'm alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling,
and they're only a few steps behind you, finding
the flaw, the poor weld, the place where we weren't
stitched up quite right, the place they could almost
slip right through if the skin wasn't trying to
keep them out, to keep them here, on the other side
of the theater where the curtain keeps rising.
I crawled out the window and ran into the woods.
I had to make up all the words myself. The way
they taste, the way they sound in the air. I passed
through the narrow gate, stumbled in, stumbled
around for a while, and stumbled back out. I made
this place for you. A place for you to love me.
If this isn't the kingdom then I don't know what is.
So how would you catalog it? Dawn in the fields?
Snow and dirty rain? Light brought in in buckets?
I was trying to describe the kingdom, but the letters
kept smudging as I wrote them: the hunter's heart,
the hunter's mouth, the trees and the trees and the
spaces between the trees, swimming in gold. The words
frozen. The creatures frozen. The plum sauce
leaking out of the bag. Explaining will get us nowhere.
I was away, I don't know where, lying on the floor,
pretending I was dead. I wanted to hurt you
but the victory is that I could not stomach it. We have
swallowed him up
, they said. It's beautiful, it really is.
I had a dream about you. We were in the gold room
where everyone finally gets what they want.
You said Tell me about your books, your visions made
of flesh and light
and I said This is the Moon. This is
the Sun. Let me name the stars for you. Let me take you
there. The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar
...We were in the gold room where everyone
finally gets what they want, so I said What do you
want, sweetheart?
and you said Kiss me. Here I am
leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome
burns. We are all just trying to be holy. My applejack,
my silent night, just mash your lips against me.
We are all going forward. None of us are going back.
Current Mood: disappointed
Current Music: My Chemical Romance - Famous Last Words
30 December 2005 @ 03:34 am
the moral to the story goes  
1) 'Lo, but I am drugged right now. I am a pansy arse pill taker, let me tell you.
2) Like This, He Smiled - Remus/James - 100 words
3) I'm writing interest drabbles sick and drugged and seven months late. Well, I wrote two.
4) This Is Not a Ghost Story - Harry/Draco - 100 words
5) ::sneezes::
6) I have fallen in love with poetry again just now. Bad Poetry (A Love Poem)
7) My new headphones are uncomfortable.
8) I feel that I deserve J.D./Dr. Cox fic. I think you should all get on that right now, please.
9) My tissue box has a crocheted couch covering it. There aren't words for how much I need to move out of my grandparent's house.
10) poem for the maybes
      there are jealousy plays, kiss-me-i'm-lonelys, a boy with things to say
      and no one to understand them, you with no one to understand. you have
      fumbled for fascinating answers to smalltalk questions from a girl you only want
      in order to drive the girl you love as mad as she's driven you.

      and you will, and you will,
      smudge the line between maybe and yes--it's something about knowing.
      maybes are not afraid of the dark. maybes do not have favorite colors.
      maybes have freckles, tequila breath, guilt, a pair of shoes
      that, when you see them again on someone else, will make you pause. "don't"
      in the air they exhale, or "in four decades, when we are old
      and have forgotten one another and met again"

10 a) This needs George Michael/Maeby fic. It does.
Current Music: fallout boy - sugar, we're going down (shut up!)
Current Mood: cranky