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Literature Text
i'm not a city boy.
i don't know what brought me out here, to a city that has a heartbeat and rumbles so thoroughly that when you lie awake in bed at night, it's almost as if you can feel it rise and fall with every breath it takes. i'm useless at falling asleep to something else's heartbeat because it begins to drown mine out and i forget the feel of mine and i forget if i was ever alive to begin with. lately every morning and every night begins and ends with the city's pulse and i can't remember the last time i heard my own blood pumping through my own veins.
i've started living in my own head to get away from the clutter of the city blocks. i take four steps outside my door and I'm already somewhere else. i've forgotten the feeling of walking onto my backyard porch and spreading out beneath the stars when i couldn't sleep at night. the thing about cities is that the only thing more forgotten than the grass is the stars, and if i can't see them when i've lost myself i don't think i'll ever be able to find my way home. But now i'm living in my head and i'm begging to get out because the only thing more terrifying than losing myself is being so close to who i really am.
if you wake up tomorrow and i'm gone, i'm sorry.
i hope my pulse echoes long enough for you to follow me home.
i don't know what brought me out here, to a city that has a heartbeat and rumbles so thoroughly that when you lie awake in bed at night, it's almost as if you can feel it rise and fall with every breath it takes. i'm useless at falling asleep to something else's heartbeat because it begins to drown mine out and i forget the feel of mine and i forget if i was ever alive to begin with. lately every morning and every night begins and ends with the city's pulse and i can't remember the last time i heard my own blood pumping through my own veins.
i've started living in my own head to get away from the clutter of the city blocks. i take four steps outside my door and I'm already somewhere else. i've forgotten the feeling of walking onto my backyard porch and spreading out beneath the stars when i couldn't sleep at night. the thing about cities is that the only thing more forgotten than the grass is the stars, and if i can't see them when i've lost myself i don't think i'll ever be able to find my way home. But now i'm living in my head and i'm begging to get out because the only thing more terrifying than losing myself is being so close to who i really am.
if you wake up tomorrow and i'm gone, i'm sorry.
i hope my pulse echoes long enough for you to follow me home.
Literature
sunrise, sunset, unrise, unset
you rise
like a cancerous sun
and orbit away from
me, this, everything
(nothing = synonym)
you set
and you're (g)(one)
for a not-her night
(i need a calendar)
you rise,
swing two steps to the left,
and disappear to your star-
Less skies; no, wait, you've
got a star. but you're apart
of anot(me)her constellation
(please let me eat the moon)
you set
me, UP, (on your pedestal)
TO FA_L
like a chain reaction;
butterfly contraption
(i sink like a domino)
your eyes
follow me.
like a poor trai
Literature
incinerate.
i want to burn;
i want to feel my skin char and peel
like newspaper on
a barbecue pit.
and my nerves would flicker
as the control panel exploded
in a burst of sugar mint sprays-
like a geyser bursting up from
the ground;
magnificent and terrifying.
i want to burn;
to feel the world all around me
crawling with sweat,
to feel the whisper of smoke
inside of my lungs.
and they say, "from dust to dust,"
but i think it's really ashes.
like a phoenix we are born,
rising up out of poverty and hurt
to soar in the open air like jet planes
and hot air balloons;
and when our souls are tired
and full of soot,
we burn like a firecrac
Literature
once more with feeling
the earth we lived on
had two moons.
(at night
they both
held hands).
-
i keep remembering
our naked mornings
and our naked nights.
we were the
sound of the ocean.
we’d smoke
poison
and watch
our liquid sex squirm.
-
lets bleed
all over the carpet,
we’re knee-deep
in secrets.
i miss
your voice
when you still sang
and when my heart
wasn’t your
pincushion.
yes,
i use to think
you were from a city
made of stars,
now you sit in the
dark waiting to be
reborn.
at least i
still have your
picture
to smile at.
Suggested Collections
i miss my small town.
(this will probably be expanded later)
(this will probably be expanded later)
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Comments41
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I am not sure if this is a compliment or an insult to my home town.