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In your headThat everything is with no reason
All tides are simple water
But they hit us the same
The monsters in your head
Are only in your head
Transfixed
Rushing down the cavern
They wipe you out
And you sleep
Bobbing in that ocean
A starry nighted motion
That rocks you into waking
drowningIf love was a storm, you’d be drowning
In the waves of lightning on the distance
Between me and the sky

Your body is above clichés
I’ll bury them deep in the mossy soil
Where they’ll blossom bright ideas and words never said

I’ll paint you peace of mind
Home for a voyeur’s jealous eyes
And name the mightiest of tempest heavens after you
remember meBenediction of my spine
I walked up the aisle
I am perishable but I will dance like wildfire
Remembered for something
And not for nothing
I will still stand when the body falls
birthUntil the ovum opened like ghost skin
Pooled like the ocean
And poured from my mouth
I wasn’t aware of how god-like
We sinners could easily be
Day we all became architectsI am just another place to live;
a fireplace in the soles of my feet,
I felt a smoke signal leave my lips
and tell the air something about me
feeling like home.
Chimney sweep found burns shaped
like womb blossoms, underdeveloped
and still in the ashen phase where
you can't cry. Nobody can, not me.
A long while before, architect said,
born, skeleton in oak, well-ringed,
hosted sunrises on nice days at one point.
Collarbone's in the attic, breastbone
in the walls. Don't let them show,
and she'll stand forever.

Now I am saying, reborn,
cherry wood at the hearth
and aroma rising and I'm not going
with it. Told that's how reb
AlmanacIt is not October until a stray cat tries to follow you home.

It does not have to be a black cat.
It does not need to have
whiskers warped like whirls of smoke disturbed,
fur matted with ravenous burrs,
frame as gangly as a sapling with bark destined
to keep count of age rings.

The cat can be fat
in an ungluttonous way,
like a harvest moon.
If it's hungry, just feed it the snack cakes
that expired in June.

It is not October until you're trailing a shadow
other than your own. Say, you snagged
the silhouette of a picket fence
on the cuff of your jeans,
or the underbelly
of a scarecrow shaped
like the barn-hound
snoozing on th
VOGUEshe sits
heaving on the bathroom
floor on sunday nights like
it's in style to have rotten teeth
and bloodshot eyes
and all 206 bones on display like
a natural history exhibit
(in fifty years they will line
 up before your corpse to see
 the girl who had to ring
 Death's doorbell exactly seven
 times before he opened the door)
trees shiver in winter
until all the snow scatters
to the ground and they are left
bare and naked like skinny
children left on the side of the road.
snow crystallizes in my hair until
it is stiff and white. i miss the days
when the sky was black at night
instead of faded grey and when
i didn't face nightmares of
carving your sarcophagus.
ThrumHummingbird girl,
your paradise eyes shouldn't
hold the storm in them.

I'll swallow your sadness,
wash away the weary gaze
with willow wings and
surround what survives.

Crystal boxes will contain
that ambrosial pain and wreckage
for you to laugh and smile at
when life's pages fade.

Hummingbird girl
dry your eyes,
for this too
will pass~
Camaraderiein another life, I would have been a poet,
but not this one.

in this one I am exhausted,
hiding from children on stairs to
nowhere, stairs which somehow escaped
the demolition of their start and end.

I am hiding, chewing my lip to smithereens
and wondering how much it would hurt
if I fell into the next door neighbour's concrete courtyard.

I am wondering what the apocalypse would look like.
here, curled above rooftops and
knocking stones onto household jetsam
accumulated behind walls,
I wonder if the sea would wash this city clean (but
realistically, the sea would only reclaim it).

I am finally finding camaraderie
in purposeless things,
bu
A tale of a torture deviceOur Renaissance lady
is an old woman
with mock cathedrals
and paintings of medieval clashes
in her living room. She has built
her own torture device out of trees
and broken records. When she climbs
a sycamore, her shirt snags
on a branch and a song stagnates
at empty echoes. When she winces,
she lists all of the things that people
who hate themselves do.

She named her pain Stammering Zacchaeus.

The best torture devices know
how not just how to destroy the body,
but how to humiliate it as well.
What do you think the eyes are going
to when they're spiked blind and cold?
When it's time to admit you see nothing, cry.
It counts
door to door evangelistThere's a savior at the door.
He's selling Bibles. He's selling himself.
He's selling Bibles--
no, he's giving away Bibles.

His fingers are crossed.
I think I heard him chant some prayer under his breath,
so help me, God
His skin is smooth and goose bumped as though
with olive oil. All of his gray hairs
stand rigid and gelled at the crown of his head.

He tells a story about how God saved his life
when he was just a little boy
and he wasn't drowning or stumbling in the dark
or lost in a fire and its smoke--
he was just little with a tattoo of a hollering demon
on his arm and his snakebites became infected.
He has just begun t
detachablei want to cut the men out from underneath my skin
my body bucks and shakes
another place
pulls at the cords embedded in me

i am not of here
your language is not my language
and the way you move your hands is strange to me
your people peer at me
and their eyes show me to be transparent

my form careens and wavers in alternation
i cannot record or observe myself
the air here shrouds me in plagues and sensitivities
my body is a battleground

i dreamed that i vomited out of my nose
and the space behind my right eyebrow collapsed
if i am only a shell for regurgitations of my surroundings
where does my image exist in full detail?
where did i hear
In Riposte, Jswallow god's sense of humor, and tell me how it feels
to send gravity crawling on all fours- stir the remnants
of this violet collapse; ardent attachment:
muscular dystrophy.

play the accretion of your dilatory heartstrings for our silent mute
who raise a glass in toast to coalesce our beloved earth,
who study hagiography as a means of beautiful suicide
on lingering, listless oceans emptying unto itself.

and maybe your ascension was predetermined, perhaps
drawn in apologetic ink on the eyelids of our graceful blind,
who invented the word ugly to describe the fallacy of lost smiles
painted in shadow on your claustrophobic sighs.
bedIt's a stabbing sight
Letting in the morning with a crack of the shades
And you forget you could page-turn horizons
Waft through free territory
Where acres are just beds
Made of fresh land

Wrinkles in the river
Tell remembered times
About old languages that could make you cry
About soft beds that carve away canyons
A speaking voice lifted from the earth
Begging you to remember
The Book of PromisePracticing a faith,
A fetish that is you
I sing hymns carved by my tongue
On your skin
In awe of the quintessence
Fastened to your name
Browse More Like This

More from ~anotherforestfire

I can harmThe beast in the forest
Touched his teeth to my skin
And I ran from the swing set
My cousin and I were playing on
We were too loud
And he watched us
Until my eyes fell upon him
He was at me
And I knew it was over

I remember finding slugs under stones and wood
I remember plants curling at my young touch
Do I make your skin crawl, too?
I am someone else's mistake
Don't let me be yours
We were tied by our fingers
But I couldn't reach you

When I hid and my words fled
I thought you would find me
Buried in my colorblind fear
My lost reasons
My cliff dive
Into black waters, I hope are sharp
With grey hands
To catch me with a c
will not wakeMy sad, tired eyes
And lips ran dry
Like failed thunderstorms

Static on my fingertips
And so much fear
The shock will not wake me up
freeHer cut lip was leaving a trail
Through the early woods
The cracking leaves left stained autumn
And birds' nests emptied of their predators
Snakes keep homes in the canopy
But some of us are afraid to climb

Featured in Groups

:iconthepoetryofda:
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Arms

:iconanotherforestfire:

A slouch like Atlas from this heavy barrage
I’m not burdened but my arms are weak
Utterly missing you
And I’m shaking

117

14 5 11
:iconanotherforestfire:

Armsby ~anotherforestfire

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I don't know where I am these days
©2012-2013 ~anotherforestfire
Category: Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

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Submitted on
December 28, 2012
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:iconsalmonella-poisoned:
~salmonella-poisoned Jan 2, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
"I'm not burdened but my arms are weak"
I love it too much
Reply
:iconanotherforestfire:
~anotherforestfire Jan 7, 2013
thank you!
Reply
:iconmondays-emblem:
~mondays-emblem Dec 29, 2012
This is gorgeous. <3
Reply
:iconanotherforestfire:
~anotherforestfire Dec 30, 2012
thank you!
Reply
:iconmondays-emblem:
~mondays-emblem Dec 31, 2012
You're quite welcome :) I'm a sucker for well used mythology metaphors ;)
Reply
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