pneumatic, we are
operated by air and
tautology. woven futile through
space and time.
ephemeral, our every aspiration
scattered to the four winds
abandoned
by history
an elegy for the frantic tango-hearts
and grasping hands
of our ancestors.
a hymn to remind us
that all we reach toward is ashes
and will be again.
@boxofpaperclips-blog
——————————
☆☆FANART☆☆
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How do I
explain how it
feels not to
belong inside your
bones?
Perpetually half-
hearted, half-sick
in love with
men you’ve never
met and places
you’ve only glimpsed
in photographs.
@boxofpaperclips-blog
——————————
☆☆FANART☆☆
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Apotheosis Hymn
The monks at the retreat seemed
pickled, profane. Chanting children
blinded by their wide-eyed wonder.
Paralyzed by pacifism. Pitied
for all the wrong reasons.
The nuns wore their habits well:
a quarter of gin before evening worship.
Routine and rosaries, rounded bellies.
Modern life terrified them, fossilized
in their airless buildings
The scientist wanted everything to
deconstruct into digits, to dissect
even magic down to simple equation.
Each night, he shunned sleep
seeking to formulate love
alone.
And the addict: a nicotine-stained
nightmare, skin thin across the skull
and bones rattling like pill bottles.
Ever-seeking. Heartbeat a litany
of limitless desire.
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Recovery
Fumbling together fragmented pieces
of our very souls, we are
learning at least to stumble
if we cannot fly.
The children of hard-won sincerity,
of stuttered sentiments, we
struggle against ourselves,
shriek the scars of our seething
incompatibility with adulthood,
nourish ourselves with tears
more bitter for the battles
we barely survived.
And all the while
we rally against our ribs
for holding hearts so wholly
unaccustomed to hope.
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kill me –
slay me with a smile
put me out of my misery
and into yours.
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a quiet shadow cast
days I decide to hate everything:
listless, luciferous, I illuminate all –
but I cannot keep a spark
for myself
others I am not so kind
the clutch of joy in my chest
approaches agony and I
bloom with the pain
of all that touches me
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How not to love a prophet
Madness incarnate, he reiterates our miracle
in such light that even fire casts a shadow
hymn to humanity foretold in a small rank room
coloured by the ear of the uncomprehending
-
We are hallowed sin and hollowed saints
eager to consume our gods, castigate our heroes
that testing press of farther, farther fallen
infinity crashing at our straining fingertips
-
The other closes his eyes against it, replies
in kisses and calluses that caress the
fevered edges of possession, craving
everything and nothing all at once
-
Cannot confess: I long to crack your bones
against my myriad wordless hungers
boil stock from galaxies wrapped in skin
swallow every eternity whole
-
He is hanged high and silent
silvered eyes bulge belated with understanding:
every time, the terror inherent in love
is what unmakes us.
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cavernous, clamouring for diction’s pity
beating dream-feet, stumbling over wings
soiled by each successive skyfall. smashed
by apathy, struggling to wake. hoping?
like maybe memories will make a home
of my sadness when it swallows me whole
do I wish? yes, I wish for this –
dandelion seeds versus slightest breeze
urging me onward, upward, foretelling:
child, you can breathe this
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godkiller
involute manoeuvre to usurp the divine:
mannerly murderers horrifying in abstract
more absurd incarnate, ill-defined in dreamskin
not wanderer, sanctified by staggering intent
apotheosis battling for surrender’s breath
plots laid like tributes to god’s breaking heart
(god’s breaking. either way, an end)
deity manqué to the soul, marched beyond bone
breaking crowns to wordless screaming shards
because the throne is almost irrelevant:
the value’s in seizing, in the wound.
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Masochism Tango
Violent in delight, like doors we slam
into each other, against ourselves
jarred by the insufficiency of skin
(You drink poison, my lips burn.)
Your tongue names me whetstone.
My own feels thrashed past speech.
I demean myself for your wines.
(Stigmata is not nearly the word.)
Darling, if you don’t mind –
promise me indolent eternities
and bid me kneel for such.
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dearly beloved
we have gathered here today
to spit in your face.
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lament for addiction
caught constant on a knife-edge of leaving
mid-step, screaming obscene for an outlet
(self-harm shadowed by sweetness)
weeks beat by like the hearts we lost
or sold or stole, traded for sustenance
in a needle’s short-lived sting, a swallow
an agony acquired through limitless desire.
~
cigarette smoke mingles with swirling snow
(my mouth kissed the sky)
suddenly no longer numb, I wonder:
is this the miracle I missed?
and know it means I’m healing
caged, but bursting beyond my bones I
cannot bring myself to feel confined
~
our joined hands clench, circled serene
in prayer, roused by the act of conquering
blithe servile selves no longer thrall
broken backs stretched across our sins
for so long our footsteps fumble, but
these paid prophets carry our fragile forms
forward, into the waiting arms of forever
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How I lost my virginity
(tw: rape. finally trying to process this)
My innocence was a cake
I wished for years could be uneaten,
retched up like vomit, regurgitated
somehow still whole,
somehow staying sweet
despite thorough mastication
~
My purity was a promise
my blithe blooming girl-self
made to a future me
A gift ungiven until adulthood
announced its readiness
~
My chastity was a cherished lie
I held to encourage my fledgling ego
Virtue in virginity, pristine prize
ripening right where tainted fingers reach
~
My protest was a secret
my mouth produced, saliva-slick
pressed against your pillow, delayed denial
dumbstruck in the damp dark, blindsided,
blindfolded by the black push of your hand
as you pulled me apart
~
My night was endless –
nowhere to run, I remained
foetal on your futon, readjusting
Taking stock of what insufficient shards
of self and life you sweetly left
when you swallowed me whole
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shrink
you search for a girl:
glossed lips, guileless smile
mellifluous manner
copper curls and curves
and clouded eyes
custom-built, created
for your consumption –
with this conceit
you come to claim me
half-shadowed and wholehearted
I stand languid and swallow
around smeared lipstick
demeaned obscene
bared teeth and burning blood
I defy you
despite all degradation
I deny you
and to my disbelief
you laugh like I’m joking
a sigh shimmies down the
breadth
of my breath
I try again
I am not that girl
you won’t fit inside me
no matter how small
you shrink me
I will submit to nothing
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These
These? These are my
suffering shoes,
heeled with hollow hope
scraped to shine with
sordid hands,
stained with yesterday’s sin,
carefully curated cruelties
and so many more morbid miracles
my earnest child’s eyes could
hardly withstand.
This? This is the
graveyard of
my grace and guilt,
garden of grand
and ineffectual gestures.
This is where half-remembered
gods worship their
own ruin.
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Winners Write
As long as love's around
we'll tell the tale again and again
until it takes ahold of trained tongues
to tell itself.
Unraveling narrative tentatively,
foretelling a future to fit
snug as skin around the
shoulders of the story so far.
Raconteur soothsayer sewing myth
into history stitch by stitch,
subtle seam to hide the horrors,
hollow hem of humanising lullabies.
Homeric heroics hailed
in the lilting voice of victors,
the winners who write wonders
wreathed with war crimes.
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Danaerys
birthright entitled, but earned
by the beat of a gentle heart
where words are only whisper-thin
weighed against warcries
unspoiled like days before sin
unspooled like silver string
sacrificed to savagery
sold for soldiers
thrashed through a thousand lashes
lost at least a life
at least as many lovers
fed foetal to fire and bloodfury
bursting fevered into birth unburnt
broken open and betrayed
falling blunted by the blade
of a beloved
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