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Literature Text
They said you were like a fish-
spending your life in the depths only to resurface in a world you couldn't breathe in.
And I always thought
you were a wonderful prelude
to a damning life.
Now cover girl, you don't cover up anything.
Your makeup does not hide your flaws as you walk to the ocean and drown yourself.
The beach is your last runway, the lightening your last flash.
You yelled "Call this one 'Hollywood'" over your shoulder.
[He told me you do not know how to swim.]
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"He's so handsome."
Yeah. He can't keep his hands off other girls and then some.
The boy took away the air you couldn't afford to lose.
He stomped on your lungs when you overheard him-
"She is the balloons that touch the ceiling at a birthday party.
After a few days you will want to throw her away."
Your smile crashed in the same way that the waves do.
You pulled yourself back and felt your heart sink.
Tonight you do a breathy version of "Itsy Bitsy Spider"
where the sun doesn't come out.
"la lalove washed ME out"
You put your hand up to my ear
in the way little kids tell secrets
and whisper
"...the world itself is a bad dream."
[That was the last thing you told me.]
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The ocean blue swallows you and the splashing stops.
[Tonight that boy turned famous.]
He grabbed your hand to lift you out of the water for a moment and said
"Angel, I won't wake you up so that you have more time to have nightmares."
Your fingers slipped out of his grip and you coughed and sputtered until you started floating.
I pull you out of the water the same way you used to pull the whole world in.
Your name was Vogue
and you did not smile in your pictures.
spending your life in the depths only to resurface in a world you couldn't breathe in.
And I always thought
you were a wonderful prelude
to a damning life.
Now cover girl, you don't cover up anything.
Your makeup does not hide your flaws as you walk to the ocean and drown yourself.
The beach is your last runway, the lightening your last flash.
You yelled "Call this one 'Hollywood'" over your shoulder.
[He told me you do not know how to swim.]
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"He's so handsome."
Yeah. He can't keep his hands off other girls and then some.
The boy took away the air you couldn't afford to lose.
He stomped on your lungs when you overheard him-
"She is the balloons that touch the ceiling at a birthday party.
After a few days you will want to throw her away."
Your smile crashed in the same way that the waves do.
You pulled yourself back and felt your heart sink.
Tonight you do a breathy version of "Itsy Bitsy Spider"
where the sun doesn't come out.
"la lalove washed ME out"
You put your hand up to my ear
in the way little kids tell secrets
and whisper
"...the world itself is a bad dream."
[That was the last thing you told me.]
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The ocean blue swallows you and the splashing stops.
[Tonight that boy turned famous.]
He grabbed your hand to lift you out of the water for a moment and said
"Angel, I won't wake you up so that you have more time to have nightmares."
Your fingers slipped out of his grip and you coughed and sputtered until you started floating.
I pull you out of the water the same way you used to pull the whole world in.
Your name was Vogue
and you did not smile in your pictures.
Literature
Selectivity
Why a word? This is no particular thing.
It can't be defined in an objective way.
The unstated dangles by half-open mouths,
a yawn like a cat stretching blithely at noon
as silence leans back on an unbalanced stool --
let it fall. The moment suggests it should be so.
If I see that your eyes project pictures behind
the irises, protean circles and spires
of curious leadings in lines of blank swaths
of colour, then I should say nothing.
But I
now find my lips quaver with verbiage amiss
and I fail to a sentence, or rather, this kiss.
Literature
Oranges
Oranges
I.
Thinking themselves thieves, they feed
on the ripe as the cart owner on the highway
fingers peels, rinds, forgotten leaves and listens
to the voices of his customers like moving cars.
II.
To articulate herself she keeps the cream
in one hand and licks the rust off her
once black kettle. The tea is waiting
on the counter to be drowned as she says to him:
Let me live in my ashes.
Her echolalia says: scissors, sliver as the image
of diseased pigeon wings echoes on her eyelids.
Twenty years of echolalia.
III.
There is a boy who lives in his own palms,
collecting teeth from the children who fight.
At six o'cl
Literature
we were warned
I have written this story two thousand and six times,
never perfect, only half-truths that make me want to
hide inside boat engines and hum.
There is a fish hook in my left eye,
trying to be a simile, but not quite as loud as the SOS
calls I have coming out,
all over.
I am not supposed to smoke cigarettes anymore,
or kiss you on the lips
on the street.
But hey, what the hell!
I do it anyway
because we’re always hungry at the same time
as each other. One hour apart. I think it’s a lighthouse signal
we both missed because we’ve been hanging from these cliffs
with cut feet for six weeks and I want to save you but
Suggested Collections
story: [you might want to read this description AFTER reading the actual poem]
a famous model falls in love with a boy and overhears him talking about her. no good. he's using her so that he can get press coverage and be well-known. [which he eventually gets because he's the cause of the magazine covergirl's suicide.] she feels trapped in the shallow world that has become her life. [in this, i'm her best/only friend.]
this is the first poem i've written in months that's actually my style.
which means it jumps around.
alot.
ohwell,
a famous model falls in love with a boy and overhears him talking about her. no good. he's using her so that he can get press coverage and be well-known. [which he eventually gets because he's the cause of the magazine covergirl's suicide.] she feels trapped in the shallow world that has become her life. [in this, i'm her best/only friend.]
this is the first poem i've written in months that's actually my style.
which means it jumps around.
alot.
ohwell,
© 2006 - 2024 yournotagoodbye
Comments45
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brilliant!!!