Since you
In the mirror I've noticed,
my lips
plump and lustfully
red if I dream of your art
outside your door
the December air
tease my sweat-coated skin, red
hand prints, bruises; strokes
left by your belt...
but artistic.
Blood
from my lips, your lips?
I don't know,
we just kiss
hard, you suck the life
out from my lacerated
facial expressions,
your next portrait
I look in the mirror
and I love you.
Energy cannot be created
or destroyed-
conversion, potential to kinetic
and everything else;
we learned that in physics class,
high school, before that
I learned from you
food loses its goodness when
its heat escapes from the dinner table
while I stared at my computer screen. I
thought of that today
sitting at a cafe watching
my iced coffee condensate, almost
sweating at the irony of steam
rising from the ice in the cup;
evaporation, heat moving upwards or
goodness, escaping the static cold-
Your body, the white sheets,
the rose they put on your chest, already cold
when I arrived an hour after you died;
your sublimat
Cigarette Smoke and Songs by xiccibanx, literature
Literature
Cigarette Smoke and Songs
Every time I look
the strokes of browns he made on the white
of your neck
just above the collarbone speak to me
of Van Gogh and his
Starry Night, how hard
he had to fight with his canvas
to lure the psycho-passions
in the calm blues, greens;
I want to fight with your canvas-I want
to learn how to draw those
reluctant cedar reds, I want
my lips chapped and lost in your
five o'clock shadow so nobody could see
the pain and my thirst instinctual;
artistic martyrdom, how
you do that to me. No matter
how deep, how dark it grows;
my lust will only be a stained mistake
unexplored on that tender vacancy
of your neck. No matter
Your eyes, a kind of brown
I dare not describe, because to say
they are ambers
washed in the raw seawater greens would be
obsessive, I am
so eager to take you in,
your soft hair, pale skinned face
so easily flushed, embarrassed, resistant
like your facial hair's subliminal
feedback, the pricking as if to say
no, you don't
actually want me.
Lying in bed after
we fucked, I ask
him to climb on top of me,
the sky outside has turned
dark
Grandma
didn't want my hand,
without lifting her head
she said it was heavy and
burdensome. How
does love become
a burden? The weight of
body heat; my hand
on her back caressing
suffocation?
His chest is heavy
against mine, my hands
pinned in
supplication,
but it isn't,
it isn't suffocation.
I cannot
recreate that cold, black
of dying
where even warmth, body,
and love, are frightening.
She had me feel her stomach
once, at home, when she first complained
about the discomfort. It was warm,
too warm, as if
it contained the body heat of two people.
She said something angry
is growing inside her, impatient hands,
small and multiple, pushing against the
skin, almost stretching it
The x-rays showed
images of her chest,
her abdomen, her pelvis,
and the spots,
more spots than what I remembered.
Her belly a garden
of many self-pollinating flowers, black
and white,
each blossom a hand
of pain growing,
spreading.
Perhaps having cancer
is not unlike having a child,
there is
the surprise, the wait,
I don't want to die
my grandmother looked at me;
her tarnished
sclera, and eyes moving
like rusted gears.
Three months,
the doctor said
like somehow he saw
her life mathematical;
the angles
of her twisted body looking
for a point of comfort,
and the decline of her body weight
exponential
I cannot hold her up,
I told
the mother who sought help
carrying her child up the stairs
today at the subway station,
I didn't even look at the baby
fearing that in those eyes,
in those involuntary
blue inquiries, I would see
just how little life my arms could hold onto
I don't want
her loose skin
and lightened bone
Since you
In the mirror I've noticed,
my lips
plump and lustfully
red if I dream of your art
outside your door
the December air
tease my sweat-coated skin, red
hand prints, bruises; strokes
left by your belt...
but artistic.
Blood
from my lips, your lips?
I don't know,
we just kiss
hard, you suck the life
out from my lacerated
facial expressions,
your next portrait
I look in the mirror
and I love you.
Energy cannot be created
or destroyed-
conversion, potential to kinetic
and everything else;
we learned that in physics class,
high school, before that
I learned from you
food loses its goodness when
its heat escapes from the dinner table
while I stared at my computer screen. I
thought of that today
sitting at a cafe watching
my iced coffee condensate, almost
sweating at the irony of steam
rising from the ice in the cup;
evaporation, heat moving upwards or
goodness, escaping the static cold-
Your body, the white sheets,
the rose they put on your chest, already cold
when I arrived an hour after you died;
your sublimat
Cigarette Smoke and Songs by xiccibanx, literature
Literature
Cigarette Smoke and Songs
Every time I look
the strokes of browns he made on the white
of your neck
just above the collarbone speak to me
of Van Gogh and his
Starry Night, how hard
he had to fight with his canvas
to lure the psycho-passions
in the calm blues, greens;
I want to fight with your canvas-I want
to learn how to draw those
reluctant cedar reds, I want
my lips chapped and lost in your
five o'clock shadow so nobody could see
the pain and my thirst instinctual;
artistic martyrdom, how
you do that to me. No matter
how deep, how dark it grows;
my lust will only be a stained mistake
unexplored on that tender vacancy
of your neck. No matter
Your eyes, a kind of brown
I dare not describe, because to say
they are ambers
washed in the raw seawater greens would be
obsessive, I am
so eager to take you in,
your soft hair, pale skinned face
so easily flushed, embarrassed, resistant
like your facial hair's subliminal
feedback, the pricking as if to say
no, you don't
actually want me.
Lying in bed after
we fucked, I ask
him to climb on top of me,
the sky outside has turned
dark
Grandma
didn't want my hand,
without lifting her head
she said it was heavy and
burdensome. How
does love become
a burden? The weight of
body heat; my hand
on her back caressing
suffocation?
His chest is heavy
against mine, my hands
pinned in
supplication,
but it isn't,
it isn't suffocation.
I cannot
recreate that cold, black
of dying
where even warmth, body,
and love, are frightening.
She had me feel her stomach
once, at home, when she first complained
about the discomfort. It was warm,
too warm, as if
it contained the body heat of two people.
She said something angry
is growing inside her, impatient hands,
small and multiple, pushing against the
skin, almost stretching it
The x-rays showed
images of her chest,
her abdomen, her pelvis,
and the spots,
more spots than what I remembered.
Her belly a garden
of many self-pollinating flowers, black
and white,
each blossom a hand
of pain growing,
spreading.
Perhaps having cancer
is not unlike having a child,
there is
the surprise, the wait,
I don't want to die
my grandmother looked at me;
her tarnished
sclera, and eyes moving
like rusted gears.
Three months,
the doctor said
like somehow he saw
her life mathematical;
the angles
of her twisted body looking
for a point of comfort,
and the decline of her body weight
exponential
I cannot hold her up,
I told
the mother who sought help
carrying her child up the stairs
today at the subway station,
I didn't even look at the baby
fearing that in those eyes,
in those involuntary
blue inquiries, I would see
just how little life my arms could hold onto
I don't want
her loose skin
and lightened bone
Current Residence: New York Favourite genre of music: Classical and rock Favourite style of art: Dadaism! Operating System: Windows MP3 player of choice: iPod Favourite cartoon character: Doraemon
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
Slipknot, Andrea Bocelli, Damien Rice, Iron and Wine, Imogen Heap, William Fitzsimmons, KOKIA.
Geez it's been ages since I've signed on to DA... it's probably been two years.
In case anyone's wondering, I'm currently getting my MA in art education. It's done great things to my art-making, and it makes me so much more reflective as an artist.
Maybe I'll post more stuff up later on...
Til then, happy holidays everyone!
marvel house required:competent person[s] to develop my establishment here-at dev-Arts+button hole'(flower of choice) Ability prodding BUTTONS an advantage to any interested parties Yourcontributions are a mine of further developments.
thank you for all of your fine critique! i really appreciate it. helps me understand the sound and build of each thing i write. i wish more people would help in such a way!