scribbledshadows

Words. Lots of Words.

Absolute Magnitudes — February 23, 2017

Absolute Magnitudes


I want your gaze

tangled in the strands of my hair,

like I want you in my bed

 

where I can hide myself

in the cavern of your armpit

 

knit my knees through yours,

hold on with the flex and pointe of my feet

 

like I am holding onto the planet-

fully aware of the speed of its spin.

 

where there is an echoing lullaby,

an ever-constant spell

 

we cast each morning and night,

catching the syllables as they return to us

 

like stars, reeling them in

as though they were fish, swimming in the universe.

 

Meat Puppets — February 21, 2017

Meat Puppets


they eat the children’s dancing skins

to the soundtrack of thunder in the next room over

 

while i take off your clothes,

and your flesh, and make love

to the naked muscles and bones beneath.

 

we chopped off limbs like they were butter,

rode dirt bikes through decrepit parking lots

told campfire stories while watching the gangrene seep into our skin

 

crawl its way all the way up to our eyeballs,

until the sunrise only looked like hunger.

 

and now here I am-

at screams and storms and meaty pieces

 

bloody, but satiated.

Ophelia Complexes — February 17, 2017
Breaks — February 15, 2017
A lack of excess — February 10, 2017

A lack of excess


my ribs have been scooped out,

and there is song in the place

where marrow should be.

 

It sings that this empty buzz is no longer ice,

but water, that I have melted

into a lake.

 

that I can crown kings, or

drown sailors.

 

it tells me that my body is my own

and it is wide and deep; that there is nothing

to be carved away anymore

 

that there never was.

Making Logic of Fairyland — February 6, 2017

Making Logic of Fairyland


∀x (Cx → Rx)

∀x (Kx → Hx)

∀x (Kx→ Cx)

∀x (Kx → Rx)

 

Is being raw and red and bursting,

the same as being heartless?

 

if all children are changelings,

and all changelings are so exposed-

yet the kids have yet to grow to beating.

 

we can do this, conjoin in this way,

 

if only we first have a child

that exists.

 

are these things indistinguishable

in the way my eyes hold yours,

knowing the tighter they hold

the more they want

 

the more surely things will be severed

when they pull- the tendons

of our hands apart

in sticky, raw, and meaty pieces.

Sensation — February 3, 2017
Cut — February 1, 2017

Cut


sometimes,

in the dark I feel

a wizened crone

 

next to your sweet

summer child

 

I hold up my shears of knowledge,

of introspection to the blackness

 

unafraid of severing frayed ends.

I am Atropos, I am Urd.

 

I am the knower of all endings,

tender of the tree, woman beyond womb,

namer and shaper both.