#.poetry

[loveindeeair]

"... I have dreamed of joy departed—

But a waking dream of life and light

Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ah! what is not a dream by day..."

- Edgar Allan Poe

'A Dream'

[orionowhere]

walk poem 11/19/23 + additional thoughts

(background below cut. enjoy!)

telling's in the lung and throat, full of air, vap'rous and spilling, coming out like extrusion, reservoir full of material, words chopped off one by one fast enough the quantity blurs by, but who needs piles and piles and piles of pieces, who's appreciating the craftsmanship, only the design brooks admiration, no individual goes enjoyed for more than a moment-

poetry's in tongue and tooth, chewing on its cheek- running over molars, lolling at a lozenge, sucking spit, it lingers- got you by the tongue, pulling on it, got you gagging- poem wants the meat in your hand to examine, cut muscle held under your eye, doesn't care you need it to keep singing, thinks the blood falling in your lap is pretty enough, good enough fruit to leave on the table, bruised and sweet and drawing eye-thought-flies back to taste and taste and taste- like a tongue at toothless socket- at the gnawed-cheek-sore- circle back at your tail, dog, poem gets chased, rarely caught, hurts to catch. gets a little deader every visit. same as any living thing.

- THIS IS JUST HOW IT FEELS FOR ME, PROBABLY NOT UNIVERSAL, I'VE BEEN GROWING AROUND SOME KIND OF PAINFUL INTRUSION SINCE I WAS A KID, NOTHING COMES EASY THE RIGHT WAY, NO ONE TOLD ME HOW TO WORK A SEWING MACHINE, ALL I DO IS DREAM

addendum 11/29: conceived this in my brain on a dog walk and then wrote it out as soon as i got home. needed to express a frustration. continual problem here where poetry and verse has come easier than prose 'writing' (entirely different skillset than storytelling, we are finally discovering after... twelve years?) since we were about twelve. first memory of sharing any with another person was showing our mom a song we wrote in the style of owl city's ocean eyes... and her response was "it's really nice! but i don't really get what it's about." one of those benign awkwardnesses that ends up as part of a pattern of upset that twists into pain. any poetry we write is very present, real, alive and bodily felt for us- but as a medium it's perceived as less accessible/relatable/understandable writing than just, telling a story about some people. some people actively dislike it, blame their refusal to attempt engaging with the work (baffled, resentful, both) on writers' pretensions. the idea of having our work perceived as meaningless, shallow, pointless melodrama, and consequently ignored is... existentially horrifying! but we are working on it. mainly by how we are starting to post publicly instead of only hoarding to ourselves and occasionally dropping things in our groupchat. perhaps someone else's body will feel the same kind of alive we felt when writing it. we have to give it away to allow the opportunity.

[jordanbolton]

To The Substitute Art Teacher - Jordan Bolton

Pre-order my new book ‘Blue Sky Through the Window of a Moving Car’ here - https://smarturl.it/BlueSky

[cityelf]

this poem is about being nonbinary.

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

– Audrey Hepburn

[octoberloved]

[arylleth]

to love someone is firstly to confess: i'm prepared to be devastated by you. by A History of My Brief Body by Billy-Ray Belcourt

[lotrmusical]

never let anyone tell you that trawling through mediocre victorian poetry isn't worth it. we just happened upon an absolute BANGER of a worm poem. go read it or else 🪱🪱🪱

[soul-from-another-era]

Unconditional love isn't a free pass to hurt me.

[becomingvecna]

— David Cronenberg, Consumed

[thoughtcascades]

idk how to flirt but i can make things awkward if you're into that

[sunsbleeding]

[weltenwellen]

Andrea Gibson, Lord of the Butterflies

[jordanbolton]

To The Person Who Walked Past The Window - Jordan Bolton

My first book ‘Blue Sky Through the Window of a Moving Car’ is now available to pre-order! Get it here - https://smarturl.it/BlueSky

[deviika]

Lee Krasner // Franz Kafka

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— unknown