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persephone and the sixseed calendaryou can be scared of anything: the scrutiny
of the mice in the walls, what is denied by
the nettling heart for its comforting lack of
claws, every muscle as strikeready as a
cottonmouth at the bottom of a ditch. and you
can be furious: of a stranger living in the mist
in place of your beloved spirits & holding a list
of resentments in one hand and a list of demands
in the other, the inherent skeleton of him you
could now snap with your granulafingers, an inheritance
of rowing so keenly a sunken ship along a rocky
jagged jailer of an oceanfloor. you hear stories
about forcible spring cleaning in december, thrust
up from the molten core of the earth and delivered in
the form of a brokendown car or a box of donated books,
spurring serene asceticism. but you can't. you know the
accumulation must come before the absolving. you know
cleaning out the gutters is an expense is stripping you
of pens and poetry as it all adds up & you come to uncomfortable
truths about how you wouldn't blink if s
the bloomers and the blowfliesby sunday, i have to unlace myself like
a corset fused together by each lightheaded
stitch and despite the underwire cutting
poise into me like a lash to a lamb, i am
tense from containment. i give no battle
cry. i hearken to no divine statues. i
draw it out of me, venom from a snakebite
and i do it behind a closed door behind
seamfitted coats behind brackets and ballads
and bastions. here i am: stricken as a clubbed
pig by how i am too pink, breathing too loudly,
greedy for too much of our finite gaschambered air.
i am: baltering through alexander's market holding
a sweating bottle of orange juice like a prop,
gagging quiet and distilled as i pass the thick
slabs of breast & flank & thigh and here i am choking
not about what was done as what was denied, how i know
the slaughterhouse how i walk with the legs of one
where open wounds receive no treatment how
squeals become vulgar in the hotbranding presence
of unmercy how the discrepancy between myself
and blatant infection are the heav
the rape of persephone1.
when i was fourteen, i learned not
to trust my beauty, my body, and
men. in that order.
ben link lived in my neighborhood, a
year older than me and whiteboy handsome,
straight teeth and dark eyes and a stiff
buzzcut and a virile flexing cruelty.
he would sit behind me on the bus
every morning every afternoon and
tell the person sitting next to me
that he would shoot me if he could
that i was dirty, a border jumping bitch
that the only way someone would ever
fuck me was from behind. transportation
turned into terror.
the ones who seemed sweet, i found, just
waited until the lights were cut. and when
the sun rose and they were done with me, they
returned to polite distance as if the betrayed
tenseness was my fault. silence, encouraged
and enforced. silence, ruled under military
law. for the longest time, i felt nothing.
and then one day i woke up
and everything felt red
because i had been
doing what had
been done to
discarding things once
they began to
a persian gi
like caramel butterscotch creama po-boy festival on oak street, ankles
bare and daddy's coat from off his furnace-
back, vodka and cranberry in one hand and
the other in the crook of his elbow. sometimes
when i am leaving places i notice how i've
never left with a man fitting the heel of his
palm into the slope of my waist and then i think
but i have this, a goliath with his hernia of
sentiments caught like cold rice in his throat trying
so desperately to come up even if just to be spit
in the sink. parallel parking and brazilian flan
bought twenty dollars for a sevenpound pan, two
stacked in the trunk as he and uncle kip laugh
over my fancy coffee order and aunt janet with
her petite pleasant ponytailed listening and after
we pick up mother, limping after the end of her
shift with her swollen feet, i fill the bathtub
with hot hot water and three scoops of milk&honey
epsom salt and as we soak everything up to our calves,
i tell her the name of every po-boy we tried,
the chocolate chip walnut cookies, the number of d
to the woman of deer and cypress1.
would it be possible to take you with me? i
don't talk about it much to anyone, how and
why i favor the middle and index fingers of
my left hand. i would be mortified to purge
in front of anyone, the toilet water backsplash
and the broken blood vessels not doing much
for my complexion. caught redhanded, maybe, or
gutwrenched or throattorn or acidtoothed. but
i think if i was forced to make my shame explicit
to give it color and audio, i could stomach it
(excuse the pun) if it had to be in front of you.
taylor is the other intern, a namaste on her
wristridge and the phases of the moon on her bicep,
which is why her contact name in my phone is bella
luna. the square footage of her apartment on east
street could be cupped in my palms with room to
spare. she offered it to me, the balcony so thin
it feels like squeezing yourself between two rocks
and the stained bathtub and the kitchen tiny and
guileless like pulling someone through a crowd by their
to the the girl scorching earthi am too tired to lie to you, to say all
the empowering things i am supposed to about
how i speak cranberries and pears and my
body is a vineyard, as unkempt and untame
as my stupefied vise on the waking world,
about how i am almondbutter smooth and
how everyone can walk up my stone steps
to the wisteria and rosebuds of my garden
about how my mother is a beautiful woman
who never questioned her beauty how my sister
is an exquisite example of divinity who
never possessed pandora or unlocked her box
about how neither of us inhabit that shrieking greek
myth with our four hands thrown out crying more
for external entities to crowd our backs
because safety is outside the meathooked form,
comes from the roles of bride and basketweaver
and bandit, adopting and adapting and knowing
i must be moved & to be moved i must be touched
& to be touched there must be less of me to
fear, men wary of rolling topography because
they can't see the destination are wary of the
unclear journey will pass up th
how to knit with grains of saltwrapping my innocence in sleek skirts,
supplying it with white wine to wrap
around its yawning cattongue and be
blushing and sly, asking you why you like
soil and asking you why you clap in measured
beats like you have a finite number of
celebratory enthusiasm for these suited
speakers and their speeches like teetering
up the rungs of a velveteened ladder
and asking you: where are the carpenters?
where are they building their shelves and
honing their craft? each you is a separate
sinstalker, but they make up a ball of yarn to
paw at, coldnosed and winkwhiskered. i dread
and anticipate the day when i don't bat at
a man's loose threads because he's snared me
in them and i don't feel the need to giggle
in the face of his knots and primed hot stare.
exodus and the holly clustersmy neck as brickladen and square as a chute
and how much can fit how much can i cram down
how much until i choke up the welfare of one
broken boy and the giddiness for another with his
sandy hair and stocky proportions and there's
no end to the attempt for atonement in being
goalgrasping and tidetremblingly trampled by
having to descend from the high hearkening branches
of apple trees, in giving the orchard my leave-
taking and the remnants of huntermooned runs and
cherryswinging from pentagrams to blood orange
lovespells. the winter when i hang up my charm
bracelet and tug pantyhose up my thighs. the cold
weeks when i accept the crinoline petticoats of
struggle and long for the low coonhound vibrations
of brontide laboring to lay my name to rest
along with my tender impulse to extend my hands to
your shouldertips and ask for guidance for a how-to
manual for the robinegg fragility of your lips
hatching on the bough of my jaw. walking through
the daylight hours with limbs like leaking p
concerning the photograph of the bloody fieldmost noticeably, the shattered wettipped wheat rachis
tattooing lashes on her passing legs, dotting
into a thin slash, a sliced asterismos proclaiming:
behold, her bluetinted calves in the lessening
light in this field nearly covered in poppies
had the red been bloomed into existence instead
of spilled. darkly, the calves spur the upward
trajectory of the gaze to her hastened furstrapped
torso, a silver foxhead for each breast. modest
savagery, starkly jewelryless, and hoofing through
split-ended grasses and clinging weeds with her cloven
feet and antlered brow. moving with the confidence
of sillage, of leaving a place marked by a parted
path, you would think she'd found comfort in the
violent afterglow. you would think she'd watched
the fighting from the bushes and mistaken it for
the sweet cries released at finding bursting berries
for the inching inextricably closer to a wellbuilt fire
for the wild rough rantipoled bodies slaking
the intimate urge for collision and resting
Change this lifeHiding in the shadows
Resisting in secrecy
Trying to find a way
To change this life of misery
The future is unknown
The past is to forget
The present is dull and boring
Is this what life has to offer?
I want to change
And I keep trying
Only to fail miserabily
Every single time
A lifeA life
when i stimulated the prayers of rib-beat
when i licked the temple of my teeth,
speed pushed my fingers shaped like confessionals
clasped holy, carved my throat to fixing-
lover; i did this for the anthem of your eyes,
the feel of strangled feet crushing the fame of stars
for the glow of streetlight worship, for the moons
of your crooning throat, for the halls of your arms,
the strayed revels of your arms,
lover: you manufactured a god out of the drugs i used
and had me addicted to the divine, to the dignity of music
you pressed in my direction: just what i am, hallelujah,
marijuana, day and night-
lover, i fell in love with your culture
that preached the real definition of dusked kneecaps,
the plea of closeted throats, the whisper of bless,
unlearning how to say please god in borrowed tongue,
i fell in love with your attention, nervous grace
lover. i levied the rubble of my sins
Synesthesia - III have learned not to say
when your voice burns under my tongue -
learned not to shiver
at the cold of sirens on the street -
learned not to describe
the pricks and strokes and touches.
I have learned that skin cannot hear,
nor ears feel
(whichever it is).
How strange to think:
I may travel all my life
and never find a lover who can hold my laugh in his palms.
Even The City KnowsIs it at all easy?
Being by yourself, I mean.
Sitting in a car, on a train, on a bus--wherever you might be now, isn't it hard to be a drifter?
There are no men with newspapers, no women with strollers, no love-crazy teenagers, no annoying toddlers, no anybody.
You stare out the window, like there are people out there, calling your name. The trees are out there, and they've lost all their leaves, all their buds--they've lost everything, just like you.
The sky is out there, and it's gray and colorless, just like you.
The stars are out there, and they're so blown-out-of-proportion, and they're just like you, too.
But the trees, the skies, the stars, they're used to being left alone.
You lack the ebullience of your drink, but it, too, is fading.
Frost has gathered on windows, on the ground, on rivers, everywhere.
Frost comes and goes, just like you, when you finally melt away.
The city draws to darkness and quiet--it disappears, just like you.
But, even frost
the tattoo artist.she finds gems hidden underneath my skin and
rips them out with her teeth, the sores
along my arms swelling with pride and red; never
has she wondered if the pain would make me
grit my teeth into powder—no, she knows
i take it like a man takes steak:
raw and tough and bloody, like my fingers
after picking scabs to let some fresh air in; her
words are etched on the point of a needle, and she
is a tattoo artist drilling ink into my body, her lines
thick with moxie: "alive" splayed out across
my wrist, "awake" above my heart—she paints
a vision on my eyelids of an endless sky and
tells me it doesn't belong to me, but that i
can have it; perhaps foolishly,
i believe her every word
Death to the LoversHe screamed,
He tore his hair from his scalp;
But it didn't bring her back.
The beautiful girl
With the gorgeous smile
And witty remarks
Would always lay six feet under.
She would lie in her death bed,
Her arms folded on her chest
And her face full of peace
Known only to the dead.
He would be the first to rot.
First his health,
Then his sanity.
She would forever feed on his emotions
Like a pretty little leech,
Sapping his well being
And happiness from her underground world.
And he would let her,
For a fool like him
Who allowed himself to love,
Where my corpse is foundAs I lay here,
On the guest room's bed,
My grandmother exchanges the oxygen
for the delectable scents of cinnamon, sugar, candy.
She does this through the magic of baking
Gingerbread Men, Gingerbread Houses, Yule logs, Candy Canes.
While I smell my cruel ex-boyfriend's suffocating tangy cologne.
I hear the laughter of people outside the streets.
Their loud, cheerful voices show the huge smiles on their frost bitten faces.
While my ears hear the bitter melody of arguments.
My parents' failure to stay together as promised in a holy place
caused my lovely imprisonment here at my sweet grandparents' house.
Through the slight opening of my door and through the windows,
Color penetrates the Darkness I have worked hard to create.
One usually embraces the Illuminating Decorations.
While I lie down here to reminisce my friends
Who are Traitors;
Proof of their conniving betrayal was the broken art project
of A Christmas Star
sitting alone on the floor.
People at this time feel w
mongreli'm a mutt running dirtdried and
mudwalloped up and down the canal.
a woman in a button down dress might
peer over an ivy encrusted balcony
and watch a dark smudge chase a kite
or, from this angle, a couple knocked
loose and luststruck as stitches, but
i am really galloping further and further from
the good side of town, the beckoning sounds;
but i am remembering anyone's hands
but yours. okay. okay. i'm no dog, but
i have been stroked and petted along
my ribbed and rapscallion diaphragm
and i have fetched mail in Wednesday
showers, i have licked tears from rapined
cheeks. i don't fear the dominance, my
wrists filling your grip like latenight
wine caught and held in a flute. i snag
my claws on the rug of mania, tugging furiously
to no avail. you watch me fret, you
watch me sing ballads couched on
dragonfruit snow and
i wasn't meant to be a pet. but
i was meant to love you slow.
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More