#myrottenbrain

[words-hold-worlds]

Es liegt etwas in der Luft.

Der feuchtwarme Fliederduft und nasser

Asphalt sind der Vorhang, der sich links

Und rechts von der Bühne einrollt.

Dazwischen liegt ein weites Feld, gelb

Mit roten Tupfen und irgendwo schreit

Ein Rabe und schüttelt den Kopf.

Von links betreten wir die Bühne und du

Lachst.

Über mich, aber das weiß das Publikum

Noch nicht. Warum du über mich lachst

Weiß noch nicht einmal ich.

Auf halber Länge des Feldes bleiben

Wir stehen und schauen ins Gelb.

Ich pflücke eine handvoll Blüten und du

Gehst weiter. Ich schaue dir nach und

Atme tief ein.

Es liegt etwas in der Luft.

Die Blumen fliegen nur so, als ich ins Feld renne und der Vorhang fällt.

Flieder, Asphalt und ein gelbes Feld mit

Roten Tupfen.

Du folgst mir nicht.

[1slob]

@ehferum @purple-golden-blog1 @senpai51 @asapkockyx @lifetimely @rvxseulgi @revenge-of-socrates-blog1 @bcoprofessor-blog @thebreakfastjumpers @dreamrsunite @bros-clothes-and-automobiles @mustangforfuhrer @waltmanzofia724c0 @jeremiahmccurry @plantcontainer1yyu00-blog @kendricklamarquotes-blog @rosalindx62-blog @dontjimmymejules @rodriguezphilosophy @abittersweetrelease @victoriajenner86-blog @myrottenbrain @the-demon-who-haunts-you-blog 

Ray-Ban Sunglasses

[duesternis]

finished moving all my old(ish) writing to words-hold-worlds, my writing/poetry-blog. new writing will first be posted there.

so maybe go and follow ♥

[words-hold-worlds]

Habe heute einen Regenbogen gesehen

Und für einen Moment so gegrinst,

Dass ich dachte: jetzt platzt du.

Oder setzt das Auto irgendwo vor

Und dann erklär das mal //

Ja, also, wissen Sie, ich bin so queer,

Dass allein der Anblick eines Regenbogens

Mich derart aus der Fassung bringt,

Dass ich kaum noch geradeaus denken,

Geschweige denn fahren kann.

Tchuligom. Turmir leid. //

Ist aber nichts weiter passiert

Und er war dann auch weg.

Aber hat mir gut gefallen.

War nicht verkehrt.

Wie schokomilch auf dem Sofa und

lieblingslieder unter der dusche.

Alles nicht verkehrt, Hauptsache bunt.

[words-hold-worlds]

A Burglar’s Seven Tears

The wind moans a lament Before they know the King did fall And that the Burglar strokes, With shaking hands, The bloodied brow he holds so dear.

A tear falls, on that bloodied brow, And shines as cold as crystal. Another and another falls, Until he wears a crown of tears. And a single tear the King does cry.

The tear crown does not Budge for all the world and the Burglar speaks no word, for there Is nothing left to say when the Fallen King is put to rest.

The Burglar leaves the tomb Behind, heart heavier than all the Gold they offered him, heart heavier Than the Fallen King with a crystal crown Of Seven tears.

A Raven follows him, lifts from the Mountain a winged shadow, With Seven Stars upon his head, An open tomb beneath his claws, Showing naught but naked stone.

By the river and the Lake it flies, Through the wood it follows him, In the meadow it so stays and even Under stone and ground it never ventures From his side, as steadfast as the stars.

And as the harsh world peters out to Softer hills and clearer air the Raven Caws once, the Burglar lifts his Heavy head and sees the shadow With an aching heart.

Home he comes to dust and empty Halls, a quiet settles in Like Tar upon his weary bones. There are no words To speak and so he mutes himself.

Bleak are the colours of Mourning In a country full with flowers. Stark is the Silence of one Where many join in laughter. And the Raven sits and watches.

In winter it sits on windowsills And knocks, until the Burglar Lets it warm its feathers at The hearth, reminded of ravendark Hair upon a regal brow.

In spring the Raven rules the garden, A kingdom in his right, and he sole heir. The Burglar neither sings nor speaks As soil he parts and tenderly puts Seeds to rest and grow.

Moonflowers and roses and forget-me-not. A willow-sapling by the well. Orchids and harebells and violets. He tends the oak and cries into his Dirty hands, lets sunlight dry his tears.

Summer blooms, warm and moist, And visitors stop coming by his house. There is no sense to visit there Where no one speaks and no one laughs, Where pride and grief do live.

The Raven stays and caws his song And eats out of the Burglar’s hand And preens beneath his gaze. The Seven Stars upon his head shine Brighter every day.

Autumn spreads a sheet of red, The Raven caws a newfound song Right at the Burglar’s door and Flies away into the rising stars, Returning with the sun.

The Burglar does not sleep that night, Instead he writes a song that mourns The passing of the King who was, First and foremost to his heart, The Oaken Shield and Elven Blade.

He almost smiles when morning sun Brings back his shadow-friend and, Celebrates the gentle caw with one warm Dwarven bread, weaved as a Well-known braid.

A year goes by, much like the first, And not a single night the Raven Flies, but two. One in autumn, leaves turned red And one in winter, garden white and bare.

A year goes by, much like the last, And thrice the Raven leaves a Night. The Burglar writes His songs in silent solitude, And thrice they eat the bread.

A year goes by, much like the last, And four nights do they spend Apart, from dusk to dawn. One in every season coming by And still the Burglar does not speak.

A year goes by, much like the last, With now five lonely nights. The Burglar spends them wistfully With just his pipe and walks Out through his land.

A year goes by, much like the last, And six times does the Raven fly. The Seven Stars upon his head Seem duller day by day and The Burglar fears a loss once more.

A year goes by, much like the last, The Raven flies for seven nights And seven times the Burglar cries, For the Raven is slower day by day and weaker night by night.

But home he comes and bread They break and almost the Burglar smiles again, Stroking the fading Silver Stars upon the Raven’s head.

Together they spend the days Of cold there at the hearth, And first in Seven Years the Silence weighs not more than Mithrilchain upon the Burglar’s chest.

A morning of Remembrance dawns And oaken leaves, brittle and brown, Save frozen ground from heavy Snow, branches bowed much like the Burglar’s head and Ravensong an echo in the fields.

At night the Burglar reads the songs he wrote of King and Dragonfire. Of tales both small and tall, of Magic and The rest, and Sapphire eyes and Silver Crowns. The Raven sits still by his side and does not caw.

The sun does not the Burglar rouse, His heart is heavy, his limbs are sore, As every Mourning morning, and a Quiet greets him in the halls, Croons to him of loneliness and empty rooms.

Fear scorches scars he thought as Whole, maybe, scabbed at the least, But fresh they hurt as dropped He sees the Raven, right by the Embered hearth.

The Burglar picks the Raven up From on the faded rug and strokes The lovely head. Where once the Seven Silver Stars shone bright, now Only pitch black feathers sit.

The Burglar sighs and rocks The bird and cries, once more, His Seven Tears upon a well- Beloved brow, shaking whole Like leaves in bitter wind.

When soft and faint and suddenly The weight he cradles tenderly Is remade, new and old at once, And where feathers were there is now hair, And the Burglar breathes sound

That is neither laugh nor sob And both at once. For Magic Works peculiar ways and Seven Tears and one make Seven Years And add a single day for them.

No black remains upon his head and gaunt Now is his face, but breath he draws. His eyes hold fire, warm and fierce, For flowers, green and whole and small. The King under the Mountain will love his Gold no more.

There is no Fanfare for a Promise made with broken voice, Unused for too long to sing and Unused to the love it speaks. A Promise it is nonetheless: He will love his Gold no more.

[words-hold-worlds]

Here I come

Under a blackened sky screams are hollow sink holes that drop you into a primal state, where the glisten of blood looks precious and scary all at once. 

Where the ringing sound of footsteps floods you with anger and fear equally, making your hand shake faintly around the handle of your knife.

Making a scream of your own perch behind your teeth, ready to ambush anyone who comes too close to you.

Making you lose yourself in the drip of sweat down your face and the rush of blood in your veins until you barely know you’re human anymore.

[words-hold-worlds]

whisper no more

the land is dark and still beneath your hands and you feel a breeze play with the hair on your back.

You smell the wind and feel starlight kiss your skin ten-thousand-fold and you know that you are strong and quick and smart and you will have blood in your mouth come morning and you will revel it.

a song takes flight from your heart bursting to life in your throat and searing the night with colour.

[words-hold-worlds]

Body and Soul

Fall reaches with cold-wet Hands into my room and I Feel something centurial Rouse inside of me, attracted By the smell of leaves, just Beginning to rot. The ember-coloured forest Moans its fate into the Creature's ear and I start my Hibernation in starts and fits. Come longer nights I will be Gone. And only wake again when New life buds and buzzes In the hedges by my window, Singing the thing inside of me Back to its sleep, teeth stained And fur frost-hard. I will dream of what it did awake. I will let it sleep for come the fall I will need it sharp and strong.

[words-hold-worlds]

Untitled I

be the bigger person I tell myself (be the bitter person something small and serrated whispers inside of me)

I listen to it with a jerking heart and can’t help but feel a feral satisfaction over knowing that I can hurt people

I watch my fingers shake and the edge inside of me sharpens, honed by pain and hot, angry (unspilled) tears

be the bigger person, these people, they do not know you I tell myself (but i’m small and serrated)

[words-hold-worlds]

wildflowers

there was a last uproar of colour in my yard this morning.

Stubborn yellows and blues and stark white, tender violet and soft orange, settled into the last green patch inbetween grey stone.

They happily bobbed their little heads in the winds, clouds mimicking them high above, glad for the last spark of life before winter draped a thick blanket over it all.

I watched a late bumblebee bouncing from flower to flower and bustling away again, humming her last song for this year, leaving me with a warm song to sing for myself during my work.

I picked the flowers, when no more bees came, and dried them over my hearth, to keep something of summer for the cold to come.

[words-hold-worlds]

sommerromanze

Unter weißen wolken, sommerhitze auf meiner zunge und sonnenbrillenrunde bräunungsmuster um deine augen, wirst du mir sagen, dass du mich liebst.

eine möwe wird die wolken zerreißen und jemand wird lachen am anderen ende des stegs, holz warm unter unseren füßen und lippen salzig-süß von wasser und eis.

ich werde ein kleines erdbeben sein, ein wirbelsturm, ein donnergrollen, die sonnenfinsternis die wir im livestream sahen, und ich werde meinen ersten atemzug tun.

du wirst tränenleicht lachen wenn ich deine hand halte und meine hutkrempe gegen deine stirn stößt, im versuch dich zu küssen, aber unbeschwert wirst du ihn in die hand nehmen.

der einsame wind wird die wogen lecken und ihre zipfel zu uns tragen und unser haar wird um uns peitschen während wir uns halten und zum ersten mal küssen.

[words-hold-worlds]

Promise

I'll nest in your ribcage When I come home From war And I'll hold you close all night long To smell your hair and Stroke your back And pretend I'm not Crying When I come home From war.

[words-hold-worlds]

Late summer nights

Cicadas and crickets sing a Solemn lullaby to all restless Souls, hovering – bladesharp And porcelain – on balconies And roof terraces, small embers In their eyes, their mouths, their Hands.

They murmur in tongues into The deep-sea ice of their drinks And wipe condensation on Collars, blood-stained, buttons Lost and seams torn, like their Bruised knuckles, cloud-coloured, Sky-dipped.

Around them life bursts, music Fills the pause in nature’s lullaby And their drink is done, their knuckles Scab – rust and the taste of childhood on Their hands – and ash mars perfect Leather shoes in tiny dots: dark dead Stars.

[words-hold-worlds]

Summer

The automatic doors opened To a border between the humid wall And the cool waft, outside and inside, And there it was. The end of the world. With tepid eyes and a faded t-shirt, Cut-off jeans and old boots. I sighed and it came inside, bringing The unbreathable heat into the Flickering lights of the fridges. There was no car outside, only the Tense silence that smothered the music Playing overhead. The end of the world shuffled up To the counter, boots dragging with The weight of its job and hands deep In the threadbare pockets. A handful of small change and lint On the counter and the rasp of a voice, Ages old and thirsty, "marlboro's". It would have been enough money fifty Years ago, but you don't argue with The end of the world. It took the pack and looked me dead in The eye before it smiled with a mouth Full of sharp teeth. "good girl. Stay inside tonight, no matter what you hear out in the back." It was beyond the border before I had Even blinked and the volume of the radio Made me drop the golden coins on the tiles. It was the last summer I worked in the Gas station and the only summer that A murder happened out in the back. I still have the gold coins in the pocket Of my threadbare jeans.

[words-hold-worlds]

A concept

There sits a boy by the window, Bracketed by light, curls a halo And glasses gilded by morning sun. He reads, slender hands cupped Around frothy coffee, soft like His smile as he flips the page.

The door opens, a chime sounds, Introduces a boy with a startling smile And the tender sound of love Spills from him, folds around our Reading boy and they kiss, light Making them shadows, melted Into one person in the eyes of God.

The reading boy is loved and he Loves with abandon, hands ink- Stained and heart mended with Gold thread he forged himself in Dark nights, lonely and scared.

God loves him through it all and Nods to the name the boy chose. Keaton for love and word and beauty Despite all odds. A saint in his own right. And James, the one protected by God, Is truth inherent.

(for @boykeats, who asked to be made a poem)

[words-hold-worlds]

Elephant girl

Elephant girl: thick-skinned, Big-footed, fat-fingered, dumb. Is what she gets called in passing, Far worse things as insult. Elephant girl: lowers her head, trots along, thick skin fails her. Hard words strike deep into her tender Heart and she trots along. Elephant girl: stop. Elephant girl: raise your head. Elephant girl: speak up. Elephant girl: fight. Elephant girl: protect your tender Heart with gentleness and grace. Let no one step on you and use you, You deserve better.