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Backpacker.I have seen you in pictures, thread-bare and radiant- your hair with more gold than mine and a white moon of a face that the light shears through clearly and finely. You are a metaphor for huge blue, bloody hearts and the skin they ache for in cheap un-bunked hotel beds, skin like silk that is touched and touched and drunk greedily, milk-and-honey skin, woman skin, venerable.Backpacker.
Your hands are like that, too, hands that have known potatoes and dirt, subway stations and the handles of bicycles and men, cigarettes and empty pockets. You are of the world, red, real, sharp to the tas
by ~MaggiexMalarkey
Doll.Her legs are white china and they are forever smooth and firm to touch,Doll.
glassy and dry the way eyes are in want with no words for it.
Her arms are the same, nails immaculate, hands clenched, her middle is a soft sack. Her hair is something gold, synthetic, maybe, her lips are pursed and expectant and she has drawn no breath since birth, this thing,
suspended like a corpse from the roof or snow.
There is no ache in her, her stomach stays flat and humble the way they advertis
by ~MaggiexMalarkey
Historically, I am a virgin.The world turns slowly because I am waiting for monday and I have been a static character six days, a liter, a milligram, a hand's-breadth. You cannot envelope the first frost in inequalities the way you can a person or half of a life sentence and the fairies came while you were so surely sleeping and they told me under the mutter of your breath that I was beautiful enough to keep even though you keep painting me yellow. I am caught each sharp, gleaming afternoon reenacting the future and I keep my toothbrush under the pillow &nbsHistorically, I am a virgin.
by ~MaggiexMalarkey
Continuity.You all have wings and forget the way you raged against the sun this morning. You fly high, quick black bodies orbiting the known world like old, reversed satellites. Everything is so relative and so you consider the secrets of the universe inside yourself, you scream them into the nests of new, wet, trembling things. You are the worst of frayed, ungainly mockingbirds and I can hear your futures plainly in the way you cock your heads and cry. A peculiar turn of phrase is passed down and distorted beyond recognition &nbContinuity.
by ~MaggiexMalarkey
Devious Info
- Current Residence: A cottage by the sea in a thunderstorm.
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Thank God for the dead.
I don't have many wishes except for disappearing I sure do wish I could-a you know, get back ahead.
Thank you!
--
The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep...
And miles to go before I sleep
-Robert Frost
Thank you, Farah. That's quite high praise.
And I hope you did like my choice of 'selected poems' from you!
--
The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep...
And miles to go before I sleep
-Robert Frost
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