st-arspoetica - Tumblr blog

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Moreover, the Moon -- -- -- Mina Loy

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stronger and more beautiful for having been broken.

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i know now that out hearts will be forever twined by a string,

what i didn't know is that this string is made of fibers no weaker than steel;

it was too hot to stay glued to you like that,

but my heart is already in splinters,

it's snapping into a billion halves,

and each one is a rupture of me and you;

i wanted to run to let you cool down

and i to diminish the flame of my coals to a barely lukewarm sizzle,

but if i move any further, this wire will slice into our hearts,

ripping not only one from the other

but also each from the only life we have left

so

how do i twist closer to you

twirl

and reconnect

the two ends of the infinity

wait

aren't the two ends of infinity

me and you?

jelly - corvimperatrice

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won't someone hear my silence

listen to the static sound on the other side of my scream?

i know i said i wanted to be unknown

that i wanted to embody a starry mystery,

but won't someone read me sonnets from the blank pages i put on display?

the one artist who isn't terrified by the white canvas

the one writer who isn't repelled by ink stains on their new notebook;

make what you want of me

give me phylosophical interpretations of the human nature

just have me in your library.

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the hand of the poetress

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a handshake should be an act of peace.

not a warning.

not a "remember the roughness of my calloused fingers, remember which one of them weighs heavier, remember the bubble of air trapped between our clasped palms, remember i can smother you in it."

page from LIKE AN OWL OF THE WASTE PLACES #zine

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i never stepped into the rivers of Life

nor glided on the sandskiffs of Time

i kept my cheeks untouched by the Winds of Change

i duelled a force greater that my ego

i though i could walk a path parallel to the mainroads of Fate

i thought i could make my life move forward on my own

free of the ropes that seemed to drag everybody else's through soot and mud against their will

i thought my will was the most potent fuel

but i can pretend no longer i don't feel her magnetic pull

that my feet haven't started to drag towards her twisted but fast roads;

i know very well the fate of angels against gods

as well as i know the strain and weariness in my arms

how they tremble under the weight of the rubble i've gathered over the years

of desolate memories and expired sentiments

how sweet the thought of being free of it if only just for a minute

to pass down to Fate

a burden that isn't mine to handle

but is mine to experience.

escapril 2021 day 10: paradox

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write bad poetry. 

wrap your mouth into a cliche. write about icarus, write about roses. write about the flowers in your ribs and the stain of your fingertips and the skin of your knees. write about cigarettes and getting high and kissing the wrong person. and space; write about space over and over in sixty iterations of it, write about star-blood and star-crossed and star-glowing, write about universes and galaxies and gladiators in constellations. write about the space between two people in a small room, write about the space that is too small no matter how big it is, write about the space that is too big no matter how small it is. write yourself a star and eat it, tinfoil-tasting, on the floor of your kitchen, while you regret missing your mother’s cooking. but write it.

write ugly. use too many undercase letters because you’re pretentious. USE ONLY CAPITAL LETTERS BECAUSE YOU’VE GOT A SCREAM TRAPPED UNDER YOUR FINGERNAILS. ,, cut & paste grammar (? who gives a shit ?) ,, r3inv3nt so much u come back 2 l33t speak, dial it down a bit. write in the language of flaubert, then dickens, then the language your father used before he learned english. then write the language of talking to your dog, then write the language of high school essays on books you never finished. utilize the word utilize where it don’t belong. fall in and out of love with contractions. accidentally become bukowski for a hot sec, grow out of it. 

write things you wish you hadn’t. write stuff so bad you can’t help groaning. write things that end in “a;sljflk jfg h” because they petered out while you were typing. write things that feel childish and use so much rhyme it throws you out of it. write things that feel grown-up and unfamiliar, too formal to function, up-their-own-asses. write things too enigmatic; forget what you wrote them about, but tell yourself it’s for the best. write things too obvious. go through a micro-poetry spell, go through a prose-poetry spell, fish the bottom of the box for x-ray goggles and write about how the cereal felt. write about your cat and the rug and un-deep fake-deep terrible stuff.

write things you really wish you hadn’t. stuff that hurts to read and hurts to look at later, stuff that makes your skin uncomfy and your body crawl. write stuff that looks better at the back of your closet. but stuff you can’t get rid of, really, not ever. stuff that, afterwards, makes you feel heavier. stuff that somehow, impossibly, kinda makes you lighter.

write about stuff you don’t really understand, write about social problems you barely experience, write about slam poetry. write about power outlets, write in the style of internet poets, write frost-length sonnets on how pink her lips are. 

write bad. write worse. write bottom-of-the-barrel, and then keep scraping it. keep digging in it. god, how many people are too scared of being bad that they just. never get around to it. that they never even start doing it. what if all they have to say is silly shit about lost love or greek myths or a good kiss. what if they’re bad at it.

be bad at it. do you know how fucking rebellious and wonderful that truly, i mean truly is? and that’s poetry, man. the act of being so vulnerable, you’re willing to completely suck at it. big ideas in small boxes. it takes a long time before you get the packaging to fit. 

go write bad poetry. i can’t wait to read it.

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escapril 2021 day 7: naked

i've been scratching at your skin for ages

trying to dig deeper into that dismal unspokenness of yours

until the clawmarks that i left behind started shedding tears of blood

the color of stop signs and red semaphores

begging me to cease my futile forage;

i am now a forsaken refugee, lingering near the borders of a war ravaged world

waiting for the battle to die down so she can call it home

i feel now like a poor forgotten stray dog

sleeping on the steps of the house their human used to own

before he's gotten too old and they deemed him useless and forlorn

i could leave your bereft of every piece of clothing

and regard your gleaming frekle-spotted body

and bashful-flushéd skin

yet all the light you would emmit wouldn't be enough;

you are seen, but i want you known,

and even if i traced my fingers over every inch of your body sevenfold,

like a flaneur trekking a most beloved field,

it would equal up to nothing if i couldn't set foot into your cool and dim woods,

if i couldn't peel your earthly surface like the foils of an onion one by one and slip my hand into your darkness to make out from it the shapes of your palbable sorrows that have painted your face at times so grim and were so heavy that they dragged your eyelids and corners of your smile down with them.

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sometimes i just want to drop all the weight of my life from my shoulders,

even if it means it will shatter on the ground,

even if it means i'll cut the soles of my feet on the shards,

even if it means i'll bleed to death;

maybe Atlas too would have sacrificed the entire world

just to save himself.

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sometimes i want to drop all the weight of my life from my shoulders,

even if it means it will shatter on the ground,

even if it means i'll cut the soles of my feet on the shards,

even if it means i'll bleed to death;

maybe Atlas too would have sacrificed the entire world

just to save himself.

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we always want back

only the times we had never seen coming;

building a moment in our imagination

makes it known before its time,

all the less special,

all the more prone to be forgortten.

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descending...

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it is a quiet and unexplainable pleasure,

one that you would savour only

by seeing it in romance movies,

to thank someone with a kiss

instead of words,

to fill a space

with touching of lips

instead of

uttering of senselessness.

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melodies in my phone that sung sounds in my ears that played images in my head that made me taste a dream;

i was closer to mine than ever and i had no clue.

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my thoughts have started their own cruel cult;

they have kindled profane wars inside my mind;

my thoughts have begun to hunt down my feelings;

they have turned my heart into a slaughterhouse.

i think i need an exorcism