Post by Laurel Chaisson on Jun 22, 2006 13:32:33 GMT -5
I guess I'll just post a few and add on whenever. ^____^
Every Body
the heavy bodies everybody's seperated by,
sluggish mouths; lethargy
personified and certified
strike up the bloated rhythms
and start the somber calculation
of the space between the notes
between my words
(c) January 20th, 2006
Moments Before a Kiss
Silence hangs like the lights on the tree;
an ornamental quiet flickering between us
we're stretched as close as we can get.
our eyes, the opposite poles on a magnet
trying to swivel and lock into place -
a natural reaction
to bated breath,
to sweaty palms,
to fluttering heartbeats and hopeful thoughts.
We synchronize,
secretly hoping our hopes haven't been written
in the oh-so-carefully constructed guise
that neither of us has really perfected...
I know my cheeks are red from blushing;
so are yours.
(c) 2005
Lean
your hands are almost too soft
to be the cracked porcelain they are.
linger a while where my spine forms an arc;
where my shoulder blades slump
so that the bones will show.
my hands are a salty mask
of barbed wire
but they can't keep you out.
(c) 2005
What Lies Between
I can’t feel my mind in my head
when I’ve bled these split-skin stories
my arms; the walls that protect me,
cement pillars of eggshell debris
etched with scars where the excess released
and the surface pain melts into pin-pricked sleep.
(C) March 25th, 2006
Bedridden
Oh bring me a backbone to breathe with
There is no other patchwork skin but this
ribcages catch the heart, spring a leak and bleed
but drowning lungs trust that nothing is amiss.
Oh silence me foolhardy lips,
speak your sorrows to the air
for collarbones and handlebars
have all but rusted beyond repair.
Glass Lungs
Glass lungs are
blown to be shattered by silent tongues.
But to take a breath of anesthetic
is a feeling so synthetic
if the bone cage does not expand
and heartbeats quiver like reckless hands
on white-black spines where
(as if by chance, by roll of dice)
once traced a sound so precise
as to give whitewashed bones
the need to inflate with troubled groans.
Now dead, there is no sign
of mere hesitation, only the decline
of beauty to a simpler form
and the rotting of aesthetic pleasure
meant to be kept; saved and treasured.
Where rythmic birds have been
now lies an unretrieved machine
- the shell of splintered life
and the direct result of strife -
the final unvoiced sorrow.
(c) 2005
My True Feelings
You sit there,
judging me with your eyes
like a piece of meat
slightly older than it's expiary date.
You're spewing disinformation
but I only nod silently and stare at your eyes.
I know you're not listening so I've stopped hearing you.
"Tell me the truth," you say, patronizingly.
I stare through you and see the sterile white walls of your skull.
What you really mean is, "tell me what I want to hear,"
but I stopped telling you things the moment you opened your mouth
and told me what to say.
(c) 2005
Every Body
the heavy bodies everybody's seperated by,
sluggish mouths; lethargy
personified and certified
strike up the bloated rhythms
and start the somber calculation
of the space between the notes
between my words
(c) January 20th, 2006
Moments Before a Kiss
Silence hangs like the lights on the tree;
an ornamental quiet flickering between us
we're stretched as close as we can get.
our eyes, the opposite poles on a magnet
trying to swivel and lock into place -
a natural reaction
to bated breath,
to sweaty palms,
to fluttering heartbeats and hopeful thoughts.
We synchronize,
secretly hoping our hopes haven't been written
in the oh-so-carefully constructed guise
that neither of us has really perfected...
I know my cheeks are red from blushing;
so are yours.
(c) 2005
Lean
your hands are almost too soft
to be the cracked porcelain they are.
linger a while where my spine forms an arc;
where my shoulder blades slump
so that the bones will show.
my hands are a salty mask
of barbed wire
but they can't keep you out.
(c) 2005
What Lies Between
I can’t feel my mind in my head
when I’ve bled these split-skin stories
my arms; the walls that protect me,
cement pillars of eggshell debris
etched with scars where the excess released
and the surface pain melts into pin-pricked sleep.
(C) March 25th, 2006
Bedridden
Oh bring me a backbone to breathe with
There is no other patchwork skin but this
ribcages catch the heart, spring a leak and bleed
but drowning lungs trust that nothing is amiss.
Oh silence me foolhardy lips,
speak your sorrows to the air
for collarbones and handlebars
have all but rusted beyond repair.
Glass Lungs
Glass lungs are
blown to be shattered by silent tongues.
But to take a breath of anesthetic
is a feeling so synthetic
if the bone cage does not expand
and heartbeats quiver like reckless hands
on white-black spines where
(as if by chance, by roll of dice)
once traced a sound so precise
as to give whitewashed bones
the need to inflate with troubled groans.
Now dead, there is no sign
of mere hesitation, only the decline
of beauty to a simpler form
and the rotting of aesthetic pleasure
meant to be kept; saved and treasured.
Where rythmic birds have been
now lies an unretrieved machine
- the shell of splintered life
and the direct result of strife -
the final unvoiced sorrow.
(c) 2005
My True Feelings
You sit there,
judging me with your eyes
like a piece of meat
slightly older than it's expiary date.
You're spewing disinformation
but I only nod silently and stare at your eyes.
I know you're not listening so I've stopped hearing you.
"Tell me the truth," you say, patronizingly.
I stare through you and see the sterile white walls of your skull.
What you really mean is, "tell me what I want to hear,"
but I stopped telling you things the moment you opened your mouth
and told me what to say.
(c) 2005