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Literature Text
I had forgotten for so long why I sang,
so many, my song turned into tumbled
bedsheets, bodies strewn,
nectar of a kiss overdone.
The lonely hoot low and languished,
I loved, My Love, I loved strong
and solid, the hollow notes,
the lonesome bones.
Crow, she came and whispered in my ear,
said your song is lovely dear,
take a feather from my wing, we beat
somewhat the same.
But the song, it was the same,
beneath the shadow of the bat, as
the love of a man
I nearly slew.
When she would call, month's later
the chiming at my ear, o' my heart
my little heart,
I heard her and she was me,
and I, without us, her little
black wings, my greedy perch, months
I'd call back, filter through the poems
I hear your notes in me.
Some nights she whispered love stories
of a girl, small-handed
across the mountains, a candid song
of love and loss
and loving loss, that which learns
to rumble after. She wrote of you,
far across, the distance
a somber color.
O, I listened to her song and did not believe,
the days yet unbroken in
the singing, love marching
imperialistically
on. The plow, the grain,
the rainmaker's songs, You
yet a thing of myth,
the trickster, great lover.
Coyote, I confess, I pressed my ear
to your poems and quieted,
the raven drawn by a curious
gleaming in the dark,
I decided to taste the water of your pool
learned what would rip
Moon from Sun, asunder-
the cry,
the depth of the heart-howl,
the handsome song of seeking,
the fieriest love, the
unrequited,
your song, the ever changing ballad.
Before you: the mimicked hoot,
the sweet finch trill, no-
I could not sing the truest notes
before I heard you howl.
so many, my song turned into tumbled
bedsheets, bodies strewn,
nectar of a kiss overdone.
The lonely hoot low and languished,
I loved, My Love, I loved strong
and solid, the hollow notes,
the lonesome bones.
Crow, she came and whispered in my ear,
said your song is lovely dear,
take a feather from my wing, we beat
somewhat the same.
But the song, it was the same,
beneath the shadow of the bat, as
the love of a man
I nearly slew.
When she would call, month's later
the chiming at my ear, o' my heart
my little heart,
I heard her and she was me,
and I, without us, her little
black wings, my greedy perch, months
I'd call back, filter through the poems
I hear your notes in me.
Some nights she whispered love stories
of a girl, small-handed
across the mountains, a candid song
of love and loss
and loving loss, that which learns
to rumble after. She wrote of you,
far across, the distance
a somber color.
O, I listened to her song and did not believe,
the days yet unbroken in
the singing, love marching
imperialistically
on. The plow, the grain,
the rainmaker's songs, You
yet a thing of myth,
the trickster, great lover.
Coyote, I confess, I pressed my ear
to your poems and quieted,
the raven drawn by a curious
gleaming in the dark,
I decided to taste the water of your pool
learned what would rip
Moon from Sun, asunder-
the cry,
the depth of the heart-howl,
the handsome song of seeking,
the fieriest love, the
unrequited,
your song, the ever changing ballad.
Before you: the mimicked hoot,
the sweet finch trill, no-
I could not sing the truest notes
before I heard you howl.
Literature
thyroidal cartilage
i held a bird between my hands,
swallow's throat twitching in laryngeal spasms.
when i whispered gently,
lips millimeters from its ear,
'you are mine; there is nothing you can do'
it struggled, beak clicking like talon-fingernails on porcelain
i didn't mean to let it free, i swear.
it beat me back with a single shining look;
beaded gaze bruising, breaking capillaries and
bringing blood to the surface.
i would have gotten a black eye if i wasn't careful.
i wasn't.
careful, i mean. i was never careful.
with mirrored eyes i watched it fly,
wings beating in time to my heart.
my breath was a cloud of smoke,
droplets condensing
Literature
In my bathroom again
God's in my bathroom again,
he's shaving the patches of his
beard and pulling clown-faces
at the soap. Last night
he held me as I lay in a fever,
made little screams, kept
the hot tongues from my face,
the mushrooms from my
spine.
He says his old girlfriend
tried to drink his blood, that
it messed him up
for a while. He says
it's been a long time.
God looks sad, jingling his
teeth at me like loose
change. The clicks of my
heart make me sick;
folding his pyjamas
would be
the kind thing
to do.
Literature
Sehnsucht
October again;
and the curtains billow
with broken glass echoes and
Mendelssohn's bride waltzing
to better times
(ein
zwei
drei)
She becomes the rain,
and breaks her own heart as the sound
drips
right through us.
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A love story.
Part 1: Here. Published at Yorick Magazine: [link]
Part 2:
Part 3:
Part 1: Here. Published at Yorick Magazine: [link]
Part 2:
I Took To Howling With YouI was shy at first, timid in my dealings,
I laced the trap against my throat,
sang sparing, tip-toed
around your poems.
The tone, the slow vibrating
from the shoots of my shoulders
to the gleam of polished talons,
it purred around inside me.
Oh the song, Coyote,
the same resigned call, it
paled before you, swallowed down its insides,
wept.
I took your little hand in my big hand,
flew out towards Crow, and for a while
My Love, there were poems
and the world was enough.
I took to howling with you,
down from the branches, safe
womb of the tree, I spread
dirt between my toes, sang happy,
sang the song of free,
your wild howl
Part 3:
© 2012 - 2024 vespera
Comments48
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Well deserved publication. Awesome write.