#poetry of a sort

[moth-like-habits]

Thinking about the way Pix’s “My name has been Pixlriffs” implies uncertainty. Has been, an ongoing thing. It has been Pixlriffs for this time that we have seen him. As if it’s an active process. Continuous, yet not constant. A choice. It has been Pixlriffs because he wanted it to be. Thinking about an archeologist in a ruined world. Restoring the past and seeing it in front of him. How does he know what it looked like unless he was there? A man who is facilitating the story of others. “It wouldn’t make sense for me to be there” because the historian of the ancient world does not have a place in the present, or so he would like you to believe. Thinking about a knower-of-other-worlds. Someone who saw people he never met come through the riff rift and knew them anyway. A man who knows another world in more detail than it’s inhabitants- who could know the lives of every hermit? I’m thinking about a man, Pixlriffs, he decides, that is ever changing by nature. A king, a historian, a teller-of-tales. I’m thinking about the importance of names. “My name has been Pixlriffs”

And so it has.

[a-hollow-forest]

they wound you and then tell you that you are too unsightly with your scars

[captainpirateface]

I love crows, ravens, and blackbirds.

[journalofanobody]

Unhurried

I.

sage

eucalyptus

the soft purr of the ocean

rain-damp pines

a deer.

it is still, that deer,

and so am I

we watch each other wide-eyed,

waiting,

then we go our own ways.

I remember that moment

the deer has likely forgotten.

I wonder why,

the memory comes now.

II.

waking each day

in no hurry to rise,

intriqued by the day barely begun.

sourdough bread,

chamber music over coffee--

the right sort of cafe

and what else?

the possibility of love?

a sudden adventure

presenting itself?

possibilities for men

much younger than me.

III.

the sea,

giving me time,

I won't hurry,

but I'll be along,

after a pause,

a wait,

then gone my own way.

-- Michael Boiano

[imperfectskeleton]

Thinking about how you convey lingering and pause with movement.

Because you can’t see things without negative space.

I can’t quite communicate the thought but basically, in my mind, there is this little animation playing. You can’t see the healing without the pain. You cannot linger in the sun without the knowledge you must go inside.

If you could stay forever, it wouldn’t matter that you want to.

[pytas-poetry]

More poetry for you

A short one this time

I'm a Summers child

I sup on rays of dust suspended in oxygen and filtered through sunlight

My bones are simply vehicles for the green scent of life growing against all odds on a cliff face

The cold pulls the will to live out of me, away from me, like a sieve my pores turn to the gaping maw of winter as all the me-ness of me seeps out and freezes with the tulips buried under snow

[moth-like-habits]

I’ll maintain your rituals, long since I’ve forgotten the meaning. And maybe it’s not a ritual, maybe it’s just art. I’ll maintain it anyway.

im having feelings about the uffington white horse again

[llovely]

here's a fake interview about my me & my girlfriend that i transcribed from my head. enjoy!

[anxiety-banana]

hello i would like everyone to know that sometimes you can sob your eyes out and have an existential crisis one moment and then suddenly you're booking your driver's test and applying for jobs and crocheting a blanket and maybe life isn't so bad anymore!! maybe you can feel awful and fix your life anyway!! maybe you're allowed to be a wreck and still be good enough!! i am a full on adult and have avoided getting my license for years but now i'm finally doing it because i've grown around the fear!!!! the world didn't crash and burn when i was fifteen!! i did this for myself and i'm going to be okay!!

[moth-like-habits]

(Pixlriffs lore in which I experiment with iambic pentameter)

It takes not mortal blood to trick a god

And as such “My name has been Pixlriffs”

Is not a claim made from a mortal tongue

The god of Stratos knows not who he meets

In truth the miss is not his fault alone

His immortality is not yet old

And memory seems not to serve him well

The past- a copper king and mesa home

Are lost in mist from rising to divine

The archeologist hopes the flood of power treated his friend well

Yet he remains under a spell to hide

How would how should how could he tell him now

This life is not the first that they have lived

How could he speak of humanity lost

The end of empires similar to these

The end of the world

This burden need not land upon his friend

Indeed the truth of time takes tolls to learn

For now, the god may believe in the lore

The emperor of past will watch him grow

And as such: “My name has been Pixlriffs”

Uncertainty within the tense he chose

His friend, his kin, his kind might yet unmask

An answer for a question he won’t ask

[a-hollow-forest]

what does one do with the wretch once it is caught, the flesh too rotten to touch, a walking corpse that does not know the monster he is or the harm he had caused

a hunt; completed but with no end

[captainpirateface]

[fixing-bad-posts]

but in all seriousness, please watch my favourite performance of this monologue of all time

[mindthewitch]

It's like lightning and the thunder that always follows. You see it first, out of the corner of your eye. That quick purple flash under clouds. And then you know it's coming. The sound is inevitable at this point. The thunder shakes you from your very core, no more prepared for it than you ever are. It rumbles and fades like it's reluctant to leave. Then, you wait for the next flash and hold your breath. That's what we are. You're the lightning, the warning. I'm the thunder, the inescapable reaction to you.

r.m.h

[ace-disgrace-on-the-case]

Icarus wasn’t an idiot, you know.

The rules were explained to him very clearly. He knew where he could and could not go, what heights were forbidden to him, the destination his father Daedalus had crafted for them to make their great escape. Freedom, of a sort. Icarus heard all of this from his father and accepted the conditions.

And Icarus fell.

Tragedy

noun [C or U] /ˈtrædʒ.ə.di/

A story affected by gravity.

It only goes down. It falls. Tragedies have weight to them, characters throw themselves at the sky with wax wings and they drip from their backs and one too many hours pulls their trajectories to the same place, every time. They are inevitable. Characters in a tragedy are objects of pity. Don’t pity us.

Icarus wasn’t an idiot.

He wanted freedom. Real, true freedom, the kind of which is so intoxicating when tasted for the first time that it is worth it even if you are falling for the rest of your life. Not the suffocating half-measure of his father. No machinations. No “what’s best for you”’s. Icarus chose to reach out his hand to Helios and hold it while plummeting into Poseidon’s cool embrace. To live free, like the gods, if only for 10,000 feet.

Icarus wasn’t an idiot, you know.

Icarus got exactly what he wanted.

[pytas-poetry]

I miss the rain

Or better, i guess i miss the way it rained there

Fat heavy drops

Not like delicate tears on your skin but so full of water you could feel the individual impacts like your grandmother's hand patting you on the head

But just like grandmother's, not all rain was soft and kind, it also raged and thundered

Loud screaming into the night and the sound of those heavy blows on the roof like rocks from the heavens

To go out, to experience the storm was to feel whole and yet also wholly small

The rain is

Quiet, here

Tamed and angry in it's taming

Anger of futility

Anger of frustration

Maybe some others would call it gentle or kind or soft

But there just isn't enough of it to be those things

Not to me

To me it's just a drizzle, never more than a pattern of calm and too still even in it's movement

The last remnants of a still dying god killed long before it's time

The rain here is dead

And so

I miss the rain