The Chocolate Chips
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Below are the 10 most recent friends journal entries:
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05:59 am
100poems
[evangelion_100]
![[User Picture]](http://l-userpic.livejournal.com/36956982/1090186) [Link] |
Maladroit
I want you to lay
between me
and my thoughts,
to harbor haste
until it is needed,
divide what is unnecessary
from this confusion
for I am clumsy
and foolish
Love is awkward
and youthful
innocently inept;
as fragile
as the words I speak
(still,
I am unable to learn)
My bones
are full of rust
they strain
with every movement,
struggling to gain
a secular holiness
that would be worthy
of Beauty
But clumsy I remain
so let me sleep
a few minutes longer
and maybe a little weight
will be lifted
I want you to lay
between me
and my thoughts,
to disentangle me
from them;
to take my warmth
in return
because sometimes silence
is the most precious gift
the clumsy can confer
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02:25 am
100poems
[evangelion_100]
[Link] |
Wait
Temptation waits
for a ravenous heart,
lingering in this pool
of fury
hoping that lust
will not devour love
(I can not let my eyes
rest upon
these anachronistic gods
that bleed desperately
in search of recognition,
I am paralysed
but privy to perfection
and lies;
carved out of truth
so hastily
heartless hinds
hurriedly hide hurt
behind voracious visions,
disguising the disgusting
with painful elegance)
you were yesterday
so quickly archaic,
so swiftly you followed serenity
into sickness
twisting and swirling about
entwining antitheses
effortlessly
(accidentally,
it seems now)
She holds fast
to the years
which grow more and more tired
through her melancholy eyes
(like vines
embracing endless weeds
after refusing to surrender
for so long,
heavy they fall
into each others arms)
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01:17 pm
100poems
[writergirlanon]
![[User Picture]](http://l-userpic.livejournal.com/96094037/24375288) [Link] |
Halp!
My first attempts at rhyme scheme since... forever? These two are definitely works in progress. Critiques and comments are especially welcome here :)
Link to the Plath piece that the second poem is referencing: http://www.angelfire.com/tn/plath/surgeon.html
1/9 Where There's Smoke
The candles throw up languid plumes,
silk scarves that drift across the room
and float between us, like ghosts.
I think that what we need the most is a new air,
free of fire, something to reform
these old flesh suits we have worn
since our time began here.
If you would be a new you,
and I, a new me,
reborn for all the world to see
then you'd stop drinking too much beer
or I'd stop longing for you to.
As it is, I'm driven to distraction.
You make me spell words wrong.
"Unlit" becomes "until"
and we can't have that. Imprecision
is the devil's work: it's him through you
that shakes my vision,
delivers whispered suggestions
'midst a heat haze to make
my hands tremble, the words come wrong.
I wish you didn't faze me. A cold life
is what I long for,
underneath the smoke: a life unlit
and until then
fire takes what it lets us see to mend.
We are burning
at both ends.
1/10 The Surgeon on Coffee Break
After Sylvia Plath
The room's three foot by five
where we have breaks.
My white coat fills it,
secures the table for me alone.
I have two minutes.
The fresh crop of manglings, once sown,
cannot be subdued. The body
has another blight, and so
I shall not rest. Tonight
the ether is sweet and foreign
as a song in minor key.
It drifts across corridors
stacked with should-be-deads,
open mouths gaping for it
like old fish, pulmonary breaths
proclaiming, I am still here. I am me.
To do else is indignity,
or so they think. I would rather
that the blue light came for them,
silent and smooth. Angels move
and do not stir the air--
a lesson patients should take to heart.
My profession has been pulled apart
and sewed up clean. No more
hauling bodies to the Thames
once they're close enough
to the brink. We do things official now.
I have two green tablets with my drink,
just plop them in the dregs.
They glitter like snake's eyes
in brackish water. Now
I can work all night, damp with juices
from the jungle-fruits of organs,
death sliding ice cubes down my neck.
Hurry, hurry. I will not falter.
I cannot spare worry for the things
I cure, nor keep the contours
of their lumpy faces in my mind
beyond a moment. In the darkness
of the body garden, Chinese white
will do just fine.
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05:22 am
100poems
[warmbodies]
![[User Picture]](http://l-userpic.livejournal.com/92599524/18352147) [Link] |
maybe maybe not
some things
never change
maybe we can
start all over again
maybe
maybe not
some people
never change
so maybe we can
maybe
maybe not
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03:10 pm
100poems
[writergirlanon]
[Link] |
Four Days Worth
1/5 Cards from the Alabamian Tarot
I. The Storm Shelter
Imminent danger from outside forces. Everyone for themselves. Beware spiders, claustrophobia, and illness due to mold. Do not fear the dark. Fear the things you’ll see when the door is ripped from its hinges.
II. The Headless Rattlesnake
Unexpected bravery from father figures. Eyewitness accounts that are different every time. Recall the happy things of childhood: dancing under an oak tree hung with flexible corpses. Things which may not have happened, depending on who’s too embarrassed to say.
III. The Honeysuckle Vine
Sweetness and entrapment. Strike a balance between remembering the past and drowning in it. Time will slow if you remember it drop by drop, but try not to get tangled.
IV. The Foothills
A task harder than it looks. Scrambling through red mud to get a vantage point on an issue that never resolves. Your shoes are about to be ruined.
V. The Firefly Lantern
Trouble hits fast as the shock of mountain lightning on your tongue. A black, wild night when you must be the light for your own path.
Alternatively, watch your ass. It might be glowing.
1/6 Eating the mirror
:gnilims reh dnats t’ndluoc I
,odnu ot tuo tes
.su neewteb enap thgil-ragus eht kaerb ot
sdrahs dna sdrahS
,htuom ym morf gnigreme
snobbir der
.spil ym revo gniruop
.srorrim dna ekoms lla s’ti yas yehT
.ekoms ylno s’ti woN
1/7 Winter Orange
You:
Thin-skinned, unseasonable,
hard with the effort
to protect your watery heart.
Peeled, you’re all rind—
a second skin, white as an eyeball.
Me:
Voracious, leaping
from a fever dream with hair
on end, throat constricted. My body
is a war of ill-used microbes.
They say you will be good for me.
I strip off your tropical coat,
segment you, your veins
thin as threads from a summer dress.
I split the sac and pluck the seeds, slick
with the promise of Becoming.
Into the trash they go.
I consume. There is no guilt,
but disappointment, the thought
of your summer brothers:
how we lay heavy in the field
with the sound of children nearby,
a delicious secret, my smile bleeding
the color of their sunlight. I suppose
you’ll do for now.
1/8 The Museum of Lost Fathers
There are wings that look like attics
heavy with squirrel shit and lost decorations,
Christmas cards shredded up
to stop the drafts between floorboards.
There is a mausoleum,
and a bar,
so we can study the places that ate you.
The places that made you send
too much birthday money,
or too little,
or none at all.
There is a library of phone numbers
that led us nowhere
and all of your favorite books,
which the truly dedicated
spend hours combing for clues
In the back are a few bedrooms
no one talks about.
And the grounds! Those are wonderful.
A patchwork
of the places you left us:
phone booths,
water parks, long apartment hallways
where our ghosts walk,
coltish and wobble-kneed,
gum in their translucent hair.
The fishpond descends full fathom five,
in your honor, and we feed the ducks alone:
vision narrowed to orange beaks
and the sweep of crumbs devoured,
afraid to look away
in case we find you, standing behind us
like nothing is wrong.
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11:53 am
100poems
[deadboyx13]
![[User Picture]](http://l-userpic.livejournal.com/80305919/16533301) [Link] |
5150
5150 I know that my instructions are not clear
I just want to get the fuck out of here
These cryptic writings I am signing
Taking all my rights away;
I just want to die another day.
I know that my thoughts are unclear
Stuttering and muttering full of fear
Racing thoughts are temporary;
Violent thoughts are secondary
Now they are afraid I will tear
Through this veil of reality
Seeing myself in my duality
Now she sees me through her tears
Sticking needles through my arm
Making sure I do no harm
Is this what my fucking life is?
I know that my words aren't clear
But you should be listening to me here
Losing time is temporary;
Wasting away through group therapy
I've lost days of my life.
Worries turn to years and years
And all I remember are her tears
I just want one more chance.
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03:44 pm
100poems
[invigorating17]
![[User Picture]](http://l-userpic.livejournal.com/69216399/14217053) [Link] | My fingers were slipping down your spine
As if they were doing the warm-up for a piano play
Your heart beat strong, you said you were all mine
And deep inside I felt that you would stay
With me this night,
Until the sun will rise again
You did forgot your pride
You said we were no longer friends
I’ve got the confidence
To take you to the stars
With zero tolerance
You’ve been caressing all my scars
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05:25 pm
100poems
[invigorating17]
[Link] | You taught me what it was to love
What was the real passion when the sunset came
You showed how it felt when a tender kiss was not enough
Your hands and lips were playing the exciting game
And it was funny to repent
Of all the crazy things that we had done
To feel how our happiness was coming to an end
To realize that I have missed the only one.
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01:07 pm
100poems
[writergirlanon]
[Link] |
Three short poems
So much for daily entries! I've been sick in bed for three days. Here are the cough syrup-fueled results:
1/2 Song for a Shy Girl
Midnight shows up with a thousand lost things:
the black rat on the fencepost,
a flickering street light,
you in your room--
A seed in a stone husk
set below the moon.
1/3 Owl Catches Fish
This is an ode to claw-grazed water
to the parting of the scales
to an open heart,
like an old vaudevillian,
beating its cold, fishy tune for an audience
who's only interested in the snack bar.
1/4 Long Night in the Tourette's Ward
Tick. Tock. Tic.
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05:15 pm
100poems
[writergirlanon]
[Link] |
First post!
1/1
Felinity
I found him, afterward,
a brilliant mess of claw-combed feathers--
a rough brush, evidence
of impatient hunger.
All reddened whiskers
and emerald squint,
you ascend the rock wall like a jury box,
climbing above my garden and guilt.
We are gifting and gifted,
irrespective of fur tones
and table manners.
I bend
to see the brightness of the body,
ink black eyes with the light pouring out,
the things the dust has dulled.
I am afraid of my stomach,
of the rumbling insistence hiding
behind the smooth machinery of bones,
of the garden and the wall.
So don't come after me,
mouth full of the taste of sparrows.
I had nine lives
before you ever came around.
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