that poor lady turned to stone

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24. Boston. i appreciate the sassy people in life.


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humans !

etiket

these twelve tessera,
teasing thirst with their
dissonant shavings,
march as soldiers 
tied to their stakes
until they reach harmonious 
arranging.
two by candle’s primitive gaze,
one in a vaporetto window,
sweating between a family
and a drunk man’s attempt at standing,
two by sea tide under an anxious moon,
one under burlap for twenty-one monsoons,
the remaining six stowaways in bricks,
come by a soldier’s wish, 
to build a family
stronger than the wood walls 
promised to their fathers.

hey  now hey now ~

give this lovely mag a read: http://issuu.com/insertlitmaghere/docs/issue_four

a poem of mine is amongst the works published in this issue! 

remuant weeds

rosarium where the remedy 
has horns,
cardinal & silk slings
their stems like a harpsichord.

relict of the twin hope.

anne, joyce, sarah // james, joseph, eric

poetryaboutmilkduds:

"to write" 
my salt in shaking 
fingers of frictionless
division, serrated 
by the river’s claws,
chewing every bank,
reed crushed,
pinched into punch,
her lips to his cashing touch,
distribute,
distribute,
contribute,

he says he’ll contribute,
she pays his share, she pays
"to write";
my salt in morning
breaths
still groggy
and skeptical 
of both whispers and shouts,
I watch them as they watch back,
my salt I tap.
I tap.
I tap,

he says he’ll contribute,
she pays my share, she pays
to buy the space in my name,
she pays to put space in my name,
"to write"
she pays to fill me then to puncture
me,
he says he’ll contribute,
she pays his share, she pays
"to write"
of what my name 
once spoke itself bare

anne, joyce, sarah // james, joseph, eric

"to write" 
my salt in shaking 
fingers of frictionless
division, serrated 
by the river’s claws,
chewing every bank,
reed crushed,
pinched into punch,
her lips to his cashing touch,
distribute,
distribute,
contribute,

he says he’ll contribute,
she pays his share, she pays
"to write";
my salt in morning
breaths
still groggy
and skeptical 
of both whispers and shouts,
I watch them as they watch back,
my salt I tap.
I tap.
I tap,

he says he’ll contribute,
she pays my share, she pays
to buy the space in my name,
she pays to put space in my name,
"to write"
she pays to fill me then to puncture
me,
he says he’ll contribute,
she pays his share, she pays
"to write"
of what my name 
once spoke itself bare

pridefulvanity:

I hope my dark skin offends you. I hope pronouncing my name forces you to twist your tongue in ways you never imagined. I hope me speaking loudly to my parents in our language hurts your ears. I hope our fragrant food burns your nose. I am not here for you.

We are not here for you.

(Source: la-rinascente, via youllneverbegoldasme)

prongsmydeer:

Harry Potter AU where someone sees Harry in his cousin’s over-sized clothing with his underfed body and hears him casually mention the cupboard in which he sleeps and calls the fucking police

(via harrypotterconfessions)

Timpani tongue

poetryaboutmilkduds:

insect dry in the pluming sun,
kermes traces bubbling up,
bubbling into the great atmosphere above.

peregrine riding with the mountain,
bathing with the ships all sunk,
immigrating past with the purpose of one.

here, here she comes.
davullar çalıyor duyarsın, bak,
here she comes in the pluming sun

strawberry soot

rice, rich as ashen,
cobblestone once 
ridden over in fashion,
scarves, wintry lollipops,

open palms, zither howling
like a cigar bleeding
over the hillside 
in mint moccasin plots,

little skeptical dots,
wearing smoke down
with perfume, wetting
the sifted grains

as the instrument coils 
up like a misbehaving chimney

matriculation ceremony is today

it’s finally here

#dontshoot

viperslang:

in Brooklyn, the boy who
has skin like Serengeti
says, see, if you born
with charcoal dusted flesh
you are prone to a sinking density
drawing you into chalk-lined asphalt
& coz i look like i was carved
from lucifer’s kaolin of night
so i must be deemed a daemon
to be hunted by default
my father…

no tide in gloved goodbyes

in this parlor, twenty-first century
varnish and six walls of butter,
decorated butler, cane of 
not sugar but bamboo,
not bought but bled true,
serving tea in cramped lilies
still starved of their bloom,
to dancing prisms, ladies 
in skintight, half life, kitten strife,
berry white sashaying linens, 
keep tempo with the trees
serenading the windows,
in this parlor, in this warring 
stage between shadow
and stratified system