The Writer's Bloc

a must

donde-esta-mi-mente:

to fall into
your face
is a must 
for me

lights around
your lips, halos
of wind
around your eyes—

to fall in
a pit of lust
with you
is a must

who are
you and where
did you go?
I must know

17

February 9th, 2011

bendprayers:

If I should disappear from here,
into another time, beyond these planes,
fed only by the flesh of memories,
my revelries will paint you:
an energy of rebellious,
the action of impossible doings,
some youthful magic, the snuffing of sorrows,
the infinite well for my wanton thirsts,
tendrils that sweep across my awakenings,
a trembling of fingertips against my spine,
your wanting to kiss,
my wanting to free,
our wanting to level your bearing with me.
I will remember: the scent of your skin,
our silly tickle trappings,
those fool’s gold masquerades,
the radio towers that you named,
the future perhapses that you proposed
while we ran, ran, ran from the rain;

The raider of my artifacts, the stormer
breaking past these thresholds;
you will not permit only
warn energies. Only kind spirits.

You welcome the biting,
the tangles of decisive atrophy,
the burning heart effigies,
the unknowing crimes,
the beatings that
came with
bliss–
they all make
me feel like
a ghost,
as if my touch
reaches nothing
of this.

And I will not remember them–
those shrapnel-sharpened shell games–
but only that we loved,
god, how we loved;

God,
how we ran from the rain.

(via bendprayers-deactivated20121215)

8

Saddle Club

bendprayers:

If I ever fall as an empty glass bottle into a plastic bag,
I will fall into the arms of little girls, too young to deplore trust;
I will fall as a failed report on Shakespearean tragedy onto
a sad professor’s desk–the desk of a sad widower with a
new girlfriend, older, a museum curator, a republican.

When I sit at the feet of my friends, I am jury to their
communions with sex. I drive whimsy and the senile.

The boys and the girls are directions of mine, and
they spread their fingers for my fingers, and I only
crush their thumbs in my grasp; I will eat their motor
skills; their grip upon gummy worms, the sour kind; the
musical pressure points of a wooden phallus, the flight
tugs and the ringers and the follies. The kids will die.

I am only a sense of purpose, a measure of Roman-wrought
time, you are only a measure of rhyme, and when we fuck,
the ears of all the world ring like every mortal soul released.

You are the very litany of a litany–the sea beneath the sea
beneath a train beneath Tokyo and every sleeping tramp.

(via bendprayers-deactivated20121215)

9

quillanthropist:

I miss the times that
someone tells me those three words —
please come back to me.

(via whirlingasteroid)

19

bendprayers:

the appreciation of
mummified remains
the lost frozen body
of a hunter shot in
the chest with arrow
survived swallowed whole
worms parasites lived past
death pneumonia alone under
the lake.

wears a dress doesn’t
eat past four p m doesn’t wear
denim likes cats ironic siphons
alarms…

(via bendprayers-deactivated20121215)

8

pohitis:

honey suckle lips;
her wrists were silk.
fragile, you could
tell that there was a
story waiting to be told.
i met her at 3am on the
bus. she told me that when
she couldn’t sleep, she would
board any bus she could find,
and take it all the way downtown
to the boardwalk and back.
honey suckle lips;
her wrists are snow.

(via pohitis-deactivated20120831)

16

The Psychology of Books

illobo:

Experience speaks for much when trying to define a person, but there is a way around being present at every moment. There is a key into the confines of an individual’s mind – some are easier to obtain than others. Books, these are the keys. The human mind is nothing but clay waiting to be molded over and over again and only on occasion does it set for an extended period of time. It is so impressionable that every little facet of life causes a shift in the design. Books are some of the greatest hands to take hold of the mind. The sculpt and carve, shape and form, with such diligence that nothing can quite compare. For the most part we are not conscious of this shaping while it is happening. If you are looking for it, however, you can see how the hands move, and I assure you it will be the same for all. You can spend years with a person and not uncover a single truth, but take a summer and read all that they have read and you will know them in the most intimate of senses. You will be able to think like them, see like them, and possibly even feel like them if you are skilled enough. Don’t believe me, try it – you will be amazed. 

6

Dear stranger,

violetseas:

I was seventeen when I walked home from school on a misty day with my mind completely wrapped in your spiderwebs. I felt the dampness in the air and I saw the sky turn a steel blue-grey. With technicolor lights hanging from window shops, my breath caught in my throat. I thought I saw you. But my eyes played a trick on me. I always tried to look for you in everyone. It was a curse that dispersed all throughout my being, so much that it hurt. Everyday I prayed for something to bring you to my shores - they shimmer lavender (you never knew). Wallflower is what they used to call me. Silent but lovingly deadly. You could have had a journey to the moon and back with me. But at that foolish age, boys don’t remember anything but ruby lips and seductive flesh. Being wise beyond my years is what cradled me like a thunder storm. I was far ahead of you. I knew I’d never have you. Still, I cherished you like a glistening golden locket against my cinnamon skin. Young girls can’t help what they feel. And when they love, they burn everything in their path like crimson wildfire. You were always a stranger, as was I. We knew each other through bittersweet stares, light taps on shoulders, knowing smiles, and lunar embraces. You never told me your stories, I never told you mine. We held in place through silence, and in that silence we faded as we were meant to. Time tried to tell me I was made for something bigger…but I’m still waiting. One day you’ll read this, and one day you’ll know. But as always, I could be wrong.

(Source: lanuariusstella)

48

pohitis:

* my half of a collab with riotinreverie
go check him out!

Idle bones can be heard beneath
The eggs of a laying bird.

This progenitor’s woes are full of stark,
She knows that plague lies ahead.

Her cracked eggs allure foul flies
That circle around their little heads;
Resembling green leaves that have fallen
From moth-eaten branches.

Extending a dollar bill towards the nest,
Is an unforeseen human. Eagerly, the hatched
Birds gnaw at the air for something that cannot
Be grasped by the beaks of those who hold no power.

(via pohitis-deactivated20120831)

10

Janice’s note: So beautiful and stunning. The imagery left me breathless.

skiesaredoorwayshome:

i. full moon. 

We are children; blueberry stains on our teeth, and smiles
that aren’t threatened by death. We find each other on a
dark night, with our mothers’ eyes trained on bedroom
doors, but we are clever, and we nap over lunches and
dinners and dusted schoolbooks, because we love the moon.
We want to be dusted by it, taken in its curves like smashed
blueberries paint our teeth blood-blue. The first time I see
you is the first time I ever want look pretty. You’re perched
in a tree convinced your fingers can graze the moon, and I
swing my hips back and forth like something wild growing
in the foliage you’re hanging your toes over. I hum something
haunting, with moonlight trickling through my throat, and before
I know it, you’re crawling down, long skinny limbs catching on
cracking tree bark. You stand before me, with curious eyes. With
arched eyebrows you smile, “My name is Jasper, the moon looks
pretty on you,” and your voice is louder then, your cheeks chubbier, 

“I’m Blue.”

ii. Half crescent 

We grow. My hips curve deep enough to carry moonlight like
cotton. I grow long, black hair with waves that dangle on my
back, and my eyes grow wider, because I am always looking.
I begin to blend in with midnight. Your cheeks sink in, and
blush permeates them when my eyes trace them, down your 
neck and down to the ribs that line your skin because you never
stopped spending your mealtimes dreaming. Your eyes have
turned a darker blue, and your iris’ have been carved by crescents
you’ve stared too long into. Your bones shiver easily with pale
skin, and you have long arms from climbing into too many oaks. 

iii. Half full.

I begin wanting to look more pretty. And one night, we look
up the sky, and see the moon is half full. My skin is spliced with
its shadows down the middle, and I’m half blue, half shivering
and cold. You look me up and down with eyes confused, and
wide. You take one hand tangled in your fingers, and place
another on my hips. You steer me towards tree bark, and
put parted lips too close to mine, “Can I kiss you?” It’s all
you say, but you don’t wait for an answer. You bring
Lips to mine, and before you know it, we’re sprawled on
the ground, swallowing moonlight from each other’s skins
whole. I don’t know where lips feel good, but your tongues
puppet strings pulling me up when you kiss my hips.
I am half empty, but you are half full, and we part black
shadows with moonlight until we are full. And I learn to
fall asleep on your chest, to kiss you awake when your
eyes lull to sleep, and mine stay awake, trailing.

iv. Full moon.

I am told I will die soon. You cry for days, but I lull you out
of closed eyes, and salted tongues, by asking you to help me
live. We dance over moon dust, curtsy in riverbeds when
midnight dawns over forest waters, drown ourselves under
waves and salt and kiss under the rivers’ blue, breathless. We
release wind in our chests, wind chime our tongues, and sing
into each other ghost lullabies and kiss each others necks with
them tumbling off our tongues. We learn the notes to songs
sung in between two skins; some pale blue like welted by bruises
the moonlight sung into your shins, and innocent blush raspberries
sunk into your cheekbones when I move over you, release shadows
manipulated by arched backs, and dancing fingernails. We remember
ourselves in the phases of a moon, my body waiting to reflect its colors
like my skin was glass mirrors with shards of blood and moonlight.

v. Close moon. 

We make love one last time, with your voice soft begging, “It’s
not the last time,” We tease cries from each other with wandering
lips, with fingers fumbling up bending  spines, with you teasing life
out of rhythmic breaths, “Please don’t leave, please stay with me,”
I promise, with my lips buried somewhere between your neck and
shoulders, and I  swear the moon is so close, before I sleep, and sleep,
and sleep, and sleep.

 

 

vi. Empty skies.

 

You’re kneeling to the ground and begging the moon, sacrificing
tears for light, but the skies are empty. You want to take the
moonlight in your lungs; you’ve begun to think its poison.

(via skiesaredoorwayshome-deactivate)

27

skysaredoorwayshome:

                 Now, open your ribs.

You won’t be able to breathe, there are lightning
bolts sprouting from my fingertips like sunflower
petals destined to seethe beneath your skin you’re
leaving open, and exposed. But I have opened
you for a reason, there are fairy wings in your
blood stream. Coral to make crowns furrowing 
in cracks in your ribs. Jewels engraved in your
heart. I have tales to weave, and I need your
body there with me, because I don’t know words
that don’t come from your chest. So hold your breath.

                 Now, open your ribs.

 Wrap your fingers around my wrist, put your 
forehead to the curve between my neck and
shoulders, and make sure your lips are littering
my clavicles with breath. I need you there, right
there, now kiss me. And before you breathe again,
move your lips down to my side, stitch something
magic into my hips, and leave marks with your
teeth everywhere on my skin you deem strong
enough not to collapse. Because I will take your
uneven breaths; I will write poems about a storm
that was so unpredictable, it made it impossible
to avoid death. I will take your thread; I will write
poems about lovers connected by heartstrings. I
will take your crescent teeth marks in my skin; I
will write a love poem about the moon, and I will
leave it in your skin; there’s magic tucked there.

Janice’s note: omg. This is so intricate.

(via skysaredoorwayshome-deactivated)

73

Cupid lost his way but Ares pointed him back

illobo:

fucking
is when a cock rams into
a vagina due to pelvic thrust
and thrust and thrust - or
a vagina slamming down on
a stiff cock after she’s teased him
to the point that he can bare it no more
and then there is moaning and grunting
and jizz covering bed sheets and lubricant
staining the mattress
but that is fucking

People talk about making love
but really they are just fucking

love
and the making of it
is when two eyes happen
upon two other eyes and in meeting
they greet without ever a whisper
and know without ever a motion
because they have become lost in each other
like staring into a vortex of dreams come true
and then reality hits, but only so hard as a feather
and still there are smiles as eyes dance
a slow waltz into a land of wondrous bliss  
that none can escape from and
that is the making
of love

People talk about crushes
but really they are in love

 

9

skysaredoorwayshome:

i.

I have these lifelines etched into my wrists; inked tree limbs that pulse when I put my lips my wrist. They’ve climbed me like a midnight sky. My skin is alive with branched pen marks harboring blue-blood ink.

ii.

You’ve stopped breathing. Your chest is heaving against my side, and your lips are hovering over my shoulder; your forehead pressed against my neck and I feel a surge of warmth. You are unmoving, except for the gasps.

iii.

I let you cling to my skin, direct your lips to my wrist, and tell you to breathe just one last breath. But you cling too hard with hungry teeth, and you break my bones so that my bones break. They’ve bent away from soil, and the tree roots hidden beneath my wrists pulse have been cut by splintered bones.

iv

I’ve stopped growing, but you’ve begun breathing.

Janice’s note: Amazing.

(via skysaredoorwayshome-deactivated)

14