yesterday:
I live inside a drum. I live beneath a beautiful stretched sheepskin, and on warm days the sun lays her head upon the face of the drum—softly humming.
I’ve always lived inside the drum, and so have my mother and father. My family has lived inside the drum for generations, along with all of my neighbour’s families. We know the winter songs to be jeering in tone but elegant in mood.
My mother speaks fondly of her life in the drum—most often of her childhood. When we used to go to the fields in the summer she would lie on the softly swaying grass, holding me close to her breast as she would recount storie
parallel lines (of yearning) by wickedcurly, literature
Literature
parallel lines (of yearning)
i am observant
and curious-
at the tension in your winding (why are you so stress-fully balled up?)
so i take you onto me and unwind-
unwinding gently (as streams would),
orbiting my wrists in concentric circles around one another i spin the
thread until you come spiraling onto me, undone.
here we are again
where we once were that very first time we spoke
and were both bubbled in the thought of each other
that is where we are now
again observing the truth of the stark nudity
of a shared confusion
we are both thinking of that again, both thinking
about what it was then and what it is now- what is it now?
...
are we in bloom again?
to share a space of thought by wickedcurly, literature
Literature
to share a space of thought
I admired her habitually.
The first time I saw her, she was watering the rich red tulips outside her window. She gazed down at them and the thick eyelashes of hers fluttered downwards. She looked contented and shy- watering the plants as a duty to the observers walking along the streets, she dared not to burden them with an unsightly flowerbed. The second time I saw her, she was in line at the bakery. She was furrowing her bushy eyebrows in contemplation over the sweet breads, but she went with the dark rye bread instead. The third time I saw her it was the afternoon and she was napping on the desk in her kitchen- her face peaceful and the c
I met death for the first time on a tuesday.
I knew that she had been meaning to visit for a long time-
I just figured she was the type of person to prevalently let her self be scattered
in mind and heart, so I wasn't angry at her shortcomings. I spent the time waiting reading in silence
and occasionally watching the robins sing and sigh upon the windowsill- they puffed their chests out to
brooding winter and flapped their wings proudly to bring a contrast of life to a streamline of white.
I heard her enter but I understood she would be there before she even asked the nurses
for our room number- I knew from the moment she decided to make
evolved and evolving distance by wickedcurly, literature
Literature
evolved and evolving distance
there are ticking clocks
between us,
the minutes and hours
racing amongst themselves in circles of
repetition,
(a perspective defining who's winning between us)
and I am here waiting
and you are there waiting
bracketed by
the depressions of silence on the surface of noise
waiting for an eruption again,
for the cymbals and trumpets to clamor again
for now-
it is that quiet that the paper
of night (covered in pencil shavings and lunar dust)
unfolds out in apprehensive extension of
a self it cannot accept
....sleep
would you even mourn that memory of us,
the one where a flood of the sky and emotion
forced our bodies near and let us
feel and understand the silence between us
was one that was evolving into a peace-
or would you forget me again,
forget me and let your stride move you
into a spin which is more familiar than I?
the night of the fireworks by wickedcurly, literature
Literature
the night of the fireworks
i.
a crescent moon splinter
on a stale purple and blue hue background
she never looked as dead
as she did when you were around,
her freedom snagged
on the sighing gloss of your
forever stagnant gaze
and i understand,
the shame-filled sensation
of self loathing you'd urge
underneath me
that look always squirms around in my skin
and i can't sleep anymore
the maggots are
nested beneath my surface
and with all my gruesomely plump insecurities,
they're set for the winter.
ii.
i watched that moon
crawl away on all fours
the night faded in
and i knew she could find peace,
far from you
the few nights later
she came back, robust and re
and you took her from me,
her bones so brittle and her gaze so frail
you saw her shaking and grinned secretly-
the rhythmic vibrations of her fear
made you feel powerful,
as if you could take all of her shaking
and redirect it back into her and overwhelm her,
paralyzing and silencing her.
you decided this was not enough though,
you did not wish to silence her.
You wished to bend and contort her
into your perfect image
gleaming there in your mind-
although you found that the real thing
was a lot bloodier than you had imagined.
the blood was pulpy between your fingers
and you liked your hands clean when
you were strangling
to share a space of thought by wickedcurly, literature
Literature
to share a space of thought
I admired her habitually.
The first time I saw her, she was watering the rich red tulips outside her window. She gazed down at them and the thick eyelashes of hers fluttered downwards. She looked contented and shy- watering the plants as a duty to the observers walking along the streets, she dared not to burden them with an unsightly flowerbed. The second time I saw her, she was in line at the bakery. She was furrowing her bushy eyebrows in contemplation over the sweet breads, but she went with the dark rye bread instead. The third time I saw her it was the afternoon and she was napping on the desk in her kitchen- her face peaceful and the c