aslice-ofpoetry - Tumblr blog

[aslice-ofpoetry]

kill and let and maim, shoot me dead center, hit my fake third eye, won't you pull the trigger quick?

I’d hate to wait any longer, if you'd man up a bit more; the grass goes unwatered, floors undusted, if you'd wash one god damn dish in this house, meditate and get back to me on that one.

I disgust not myself, but a secret third person standing in the room with us - is it your father? or my own? who will know, bring forth that rotten apple, the sweetest one of the bunch, I'll take too big a bite and choke.

- r.o

[aslice-ofpoetry]

do you rot, like the crab apples in the grass of my yard? something once living, clearly, an abundance that bars those wanting, a putrid stench swimming through the dirt;

oak leaves creating a film of black over the lake. when they caress your feet as you sink into the mud, enveloping like something too familiar to fear, when those decomposed scales finally catch up to us and clog our drains and waterways, when they fail to become earth and instead blanket my eyes and hands, will you hold me then?

raise me from the earth, clean me off, and peel them from my skin? peel away the bandages? what will I become when the skies clear, when it all washes away, what lies beneath the rot?

-r.o

[aslice-ofpoetry]

only my cheeks were warm, uniquely sapped from my being, I want to be close to you, and it hurts to write down, and I want to vomit thinking about it, as I relish in the fantasy of it all, that I, truthfully, cannot even put away somewhere safe, let alone somewhere wicked.

be mean to me in ways I can wholeheartedly protest, reject me for reasons that shroud you in evil, yell at me so I can scream back and have a place to put all this passion, send me on my way and I'll go down fighting, let me put up a fight so I can speak with words that don't weep with longing

-r.o

[aslice-ofpoetry]

shoot me in the center of my fake third eye, shut me up for one god damn second, I disgust not myself, but a secret third person standing in the room with us - is it my father?

my shadow, sneering in some mimic of the man, rejects what I've become; a rotten apple, the sweetest one of the bunch, I take too big a bite and choke.

-r.o

[aslice-ofpoetry]

list of poems to write

Something about, hair soft enough it glides between my fingers like sand

And something about warmth and blankets and a worn-out couch

And something else about loving being easier than breathing is a metaphor I find a bit too on-the-nose

Something about the moon, and the stars, and the sun and the sky

Something about you

[aslice-ofpoetry]

it's so god damn flat here, my heart pours out for eons, and off the edge of it all, spilling forth and pooling, collecting and mixing, becoming some disgusting attempt at love.

I feel hyperbolic, too much for anyone, and not enough for myself, I wish you'd just punch me, crack my teeth and shove my anger down my own throat.

-r.o

[aslice-ofpoetry]

to be in love, to be sweet and quiet, loud and unassuming - hold me close and dear, have you cradled someone in this way?

have you looked past your childhood, fallen forward to the present, and sat there happy? did you detach yourself from your roots snaking through the sand?

oh to be in love and have a reason to understand today, to brush my teeth and hold myself close, do I need someone to tell me who I am? whisper in my ear and run away before I turn and glimpse at your nostalgic face, so I can say, oh to be in love! is something I said once.

-r.o

[aslice-ofpoetry]

currency or cash, the exchange rate's shit these days. I'll want something and it's twice the price - who's comparing who? what's to the dime if its mine or another's?

it's so flat here, the dogs can run for miles and still smile for a picture, and the postman takes weeks to bring me my mail.

why's the buck gotta be worth less than a dollar? why's my future gotta be any worse off than yours?

-r.o

[aslice-ofpoetry]

grapefruit, pomegranate, grate my legs to bone, fruit of the skies,  bulbous; more than expected. wear down those feet, walk me to the shore, drown me in juice.

- r.o

[aslice-ofpoetry]

I’m not religious, but I pray from time to time, for it’s not a conscious thing, and I’ll I pray to an unrealized god, mirroring what lies beneath my brow.

I won’t say I’m religious, for I’ll claim it in a way of my own, and what’s to it if I’m praying alone? 

oh lord, what’s to it?

- r.o

[aslice-ofpoetry]

as far as the sky allowed, she watched the lines whisper through the wheat; a thick rumour flowing through the veins of the land, stretching from sea to space.

and only knowing in ways unfathomable, and only seeing in ways unforeseen, a lone traveler, a small dot on the horizon, follows the clouds as they plummet off the edge of the earth.

- r.o

[aslice-ofpoetry]

to my cutting board

for you are functional, my knives seldom dull, liquids caught by your rim, perfectly shaped to slide in my tupperware drawer.

and aren’t you stained an off-white from years of use, darkened by cooking disasters, you follow me with a purpose, I lead and you’re damaged.

nothing escapes your grooves - years of garlic, tears, hands with hands and hands alone, holding it up and holding it all, protecting what rips you apart.

- r.o

[aslice-ofpoetry]

a thirst for something trivial, exploding out these happenings beyond their scope and nature, find meaning in the mundane, engage beyond necessity.

it is unimportant - unless it thrives within I must force thought to existence, stoke the flames to keep it burning, imagining an other ground, that from which I stand.

-r.o

[aslice-ofpoetry]

a letter to some version of myself

have you reached that age yet? a checkpoint of enlightenment - when the past is the past, and your presence is known

have I changed much? for I have from the last time and the time before that, and all my little pasts lie in these lines. and with these lines, sometimes I read them - if I had known, I wonder - if only I knew.

when will I see you again? turn the page and she’s there, I’m there,  gone and forgotten, and yet sitting in the back seat.

do you remember that these pages are bound? lean forward, whisper in my ear, go ahead and ask - when will tomorrow come?

- r.o

[aslice-ofpoetry]

I’m not religious, but I pray from time to time. entertaining my belief of god; submitting in hope of retribution.

the perpetrator none other than the flow of time, a cascading future into my pool of presence. don’t stop, yet - make slower in volumes, and as the pages turn, prevent my fate from being read aloud.

and should you tell my story, do so with vigor. may you remember my name as immutable, and may the lord to whom I send infrequent praise think of me fondly - for when I believed, it was in earnest.

- r.o 

[aslice-ofpoetry]

dripping from my chin, down my cheeks and across my chest, slipping through my fingers.

warmed next to its crimson glow, sharing this moment with a heartbeat alone, naked to the one who watches, clothed and bandaged to the rest.

- r.o

[aslice-ofpoetry]

all my treasured women starve; all my closest companions cry, for why does he beat us thin? with our bodies, he bends and shapes, into little wire sculptures, to adorn his mantle.

extrude me dull and dead in and with spite, I’ll sparkle.

- r.o