Memento mori

April 24, 2015

Reminder: my heart will stop beating someday. Reminder:
This, I already know. It doesn’t seem like it’s been only three weeks
Since I checked for your pulse and found nothing in its place,
But I suppose the clock doesn’t keep ticking once time has run out.

I’m sorry; I simply forgot love is not supposed to last forever.
I should’ve known your heart would stop beating while my pulse
Still sounded like your name. It’s just that my heart is tired.
I think it’s about time I let it die in its sleep.

But first, I must thank you for digging my grave. I’m six feet
Underground in a coffin made out of nails and broken promises and
I’m not in pain anymore. I think being buried alive hurt less
Than loving you while your heart was dead ever did.

My love has had its funeral. My love is a rotting corpse,
Skin pulled taut on clean white bones. It was last seen
Wearing its Sunday best, but that was only an apology
For the mess it left behind.

What a shame; I don’t think I’m in love anymore.

When I see you, I get excited
Butterflies and rushed thoughts, oh I would be delighted
To strike up a converation, the plan is farsighted
Can’t blow an opportunity, my words are recited
Over and over, commited to memory, my confidence is ignited
Carefully I stroll to you, but my projectory shortsighted
Walking past you, I realize the chance of us is slighted
Because deep down I know my affection will never be requited

Flowers in hell

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songs with bells may make you feel like a child

someone tried to sell you a myth

that you were a destroyer,

and I think you handed over two or three 

shiny pieces of yourself in exchange,

and you keep paying out.

but I know your secretmost self

must still create dreams.

we are factories for dreams.

channels, lined with shiny coins.

and you can swim to the bottom

and collect them, and breathe the water in.

.Ysidro Xylander 2015.

Poetry is simply the artistic exploitation of the female sensuality. It is the dead corpse, and its imminent dismemberment in the hands of the remote coroner.

Poet’s gwak! They are vultures,circling the carcass of youth.

Poetry does not breath, but bleeds; it is the cancerous moonlight, receding to and fro the ocean rocks; that takes with it those too weak, too fragile, too idealistic.

Poetry is a lying whore at midnight, promising you love, and it physical embodiment. They are words wrought and conned into to making you feel happy; but what does poetry do, if not simply capitalize on the corporate sentiments of the human soul.

Poetry is the beautiful mask that devils wear; when children of spring come parading.

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I knew it was love the second time my eyes like forests locked with yours. It was like you saw the darkest, dampest, mustiest corners of my soul and wanted nothing more than to crawl inside of them and learn your way around.

My arms are open and you are more than welcome to dwell in this grove as long as you’d like, as long as I can frolic about the backwoods of your mind when you decide you’ve competently mapped the paths of mine to memory.

Your smile is the sunshine filtering through the canopy on a warm, rainy day, watering and warming, the winter has been long and cold, but the honeysuckle and tiger lilies are sprouting and blooming in the new found warmth of my heart when it can feel yours near.

Let’s tread barefoot, hand in hand, one with one another and the earth, and figure out which trails of my mind are parallel to or cross with yours, and which ones are going to need a little more exploring.

My heart has always been full of wanderlust, I’m a runner and I yearn for the unknown. I am running, grass beneath my feet and wind whipping through my hair. I’m afraid of love, I am a doe, wide eyed and in my natural state of fight or flight, but I’ve never wanted something this bad and baby, I am running to you.

—  tms, nature is a metaphor for you because baby it’s so easy with you.
Childish Dreams

Can I be a child one more time?
Just for a day?
So I can revel in the feeling
of no responsibility.
So I can shut out
the realities of life.
So I can feel the wind through my hair,
still believing I could fly away on a swing.
And instead of wishing for grown-up things,
like making my own rules,
watching tv as long as I want,
and staying up late,
I could realize none of it mattered.
I had what the grown-ups wanted –
A carefree,
imaginative life,
instead of simply
an existence.

- Alicia N Green

River Song

Swallow: the pressure of warmth in the throat, air and tension –

the past, future – pushing against the teeth, against

the tongue, forced to action, forward and onward:

apprehensions, complications, things unknown, forced

forward and onward: the movement of the fish, starts and fits,

between the stones and the ripples, the riverweed, the pulse,

the heartbeat – the hairs raised on your skin, shivering –

downstream, upstream: the trout in intermission, considering.

Here is the swirl; here the white water through the stone;

here is the thrown stone in the undertow, curled beneath

the foam, the shadows of the elders being thrown above, blowing,

the arbors holding, gripping at the moving air, water, earth; here is

the push through the corridors carved by motions, before the motions,

after the run of the thousand ripples: the ups, downs, movement;

the loosestrife blowing in the shadow and out, heavily rooted,

overlooking the ripples – bent, irregular – jealous of the nomadic.

Release: nature, spill forth, symbolism here and there;

the water runs above the largest stones, surrounds them –

bathes them and carves them – enters their cavities, their divots;

the rush removes bits of algae, tuffs of hair pulled away, pushed

downstream, wrinkling in the current, dropping below for the bottom-feeders,

oblivious, strong against the push, gobbling up what’s left behind.

“You’ve never dated? But why?”
A question commonly asked
When the fact is brought to light.
Partially because I’ve been asked out
And grand total of thrice.
And yet, something felt off,
Something wasn’t right.
Traits of these suitors
Unveiling over time
While I was uninvolved,
I soon learned.
Alcoholism, sexual assault,
And one lack of interest,
Bullets dodged, if you ask me.
“Well guys like it when
The girl makes the
First move!”
It’s said as if I haven’t tried.
No real attractions past
“Oh he’s kinda cute”
Until at the least acquainted,
Usually needing friendship
Before the courage arises
To perhaps, ask them on a date.
By this time, however,
Friendship is established,
Nothing more,
Nothing less.
I understand that
One cannot help his or her
I understand this more than most.
Either you’re attracted
Or you’re not.
Simple as that.
The usual response,
“Sorry, I just see you as a friend.”
And that’s okay.
That’s perfectly alright.
Yes, I get attractions.
Unrequited at best.
Perhaps I’ll get some cats,
In time,
Or perhaps something will happen.
You know how people
Often joke about their fears?
There’s a reason I crack
So many
Forever alone jokes.

My body is made of forests
Crushed, torn, and put back together.
The Frankenstein of redwood trees.

I’m the discarded surplus from 100 years
And you are the hurricane,
that i can no longer resist.

My cardboard heart remembers water and wind
from the tops of branches, swaying.
And now puddles make me crumple, grow
Collapse. Remembering that I am no longer what I was

Crushed. Torn. And put back together, less.

You are more than ‘the first drop of rain in a hurricane’
You are the wind that catches my corners.
And throws me out to sea.
You are the storm that makes me grow
Even though it kills me.

My cardboard heart keeps bad habits.
muscle memory for dirt, and rain
Like the camp fire, that remembers being leaves
And has forgotten that it burns.

Crushed. Torn. Put back together. Different.

But. Though I cannot live with storms,
With rain. With you.
My cardboard limbs have carried me further
Than my roots could ever knew.

—  Michael Beswick, My Cardboard Heart

1260. “my only advice”