Text

dispassiontea:

The are so many houses that sing

songs and let us eat our dinner

like we’re still teenagers and our parents

still care. Bring

messages to each other

we still have (hope for health,) happiness,

that we’ll pull out our splinter(s) 

& move on

Still have fun

Still be friends

I hear a hopeful murmur

while you howl.

The muttering entrances me more.

Tell the house, your mom, yourself,

howling, little love,

I was wrong. 

Photo
internetpoetry:

image macro by paul ray christian
Text

The are so many houses that sing

songs and let us eat our dinner

like we’re still teenagers and our parents

still care. Bring

messages to each other

we still have (hope for health,) happiness,

that we’ll pull out our splinter(s) 

& move on

Still have fun

Still be friends

I hear a hopeful murmur

while you howl.

The muttering entrances me more.

Tell the house, your mom, yourself,

howling, little love,

I was wrong. 

Text

Except our own shining feet

dispassiontea:

Like gold covered coffee beans,

beautiful and glistening and

useless

water slipped through our mouths

we spit on the ground,

called it OK

Unable to be grounded

nothing can give us a buzz

No caffeine

No cool water

Only the running away

Photo
shadowonyx:

3 of 12: “frustration”

shadowonyx:

3 of 12: “frustration”

(via ankhesenamun)

Text

And I’ll never be OK

Waiting for trees to grow like they mean something.

Say something.

Even if you don’t exist for me, I need you, I see you.

You’re the only thing that I feel and

I forgot forever,

yelling, tastes, summers.

Mountains and dead butterflies plagued us.

I never got to tell you about the one I saw, one wing torn off, dying.

That was the same summer that we choked on separate smoke.

Now those (and deserts) are all we are.

Text

Ufo No. 39

unknowmenclature:

This feeling is
inebriated fan mail,
a portrait in which I’m flipping
off the painter, four score and
seven beers ago when I buried the
stillborn of my humility
and discovered the chopstick secret to living two seconds
longer than everyone else.

(via unknowmenclature)

Text

"Is it like a poetry jam? Are you going to open mic it? Jam your poetry?"

-My dad, completely earnestly, when I told him I was going to a poetry festival. 

No, endearing engineer dad. No jamming for me.

Video

voicemailpoems:

'another poem about the whole goddamn universe (because all poems are about the whole goddamn universe if you think about it that way and you should)'
by Sally J. Johnson

the current count of men in space is six
which is still some unbelievable number. still too few
to say we reached anywhere beyond ourselves. still something
to believe in if you’re little enough and that earth-as-marble
perspective lets us know we’re all little enough.

so far two times that many men have made it to the moon.
met that place and said their words and left their flags
and footprints and golf balls and statues and
yes their own shit because if anyone is out there
they need to know about how capable humans are
when it comes to always leaving a mess.

of course we’re now making laws
so that nobody touches our things
all those empty miles away. meanwhile:

here on earth in america in the midwest
a woman with a cinched waist looks up at orion’s belted
sword and thinks of course there is no god. of course

there had to be the violence of starting
out. no deity needed to learn to touch
each other with hurt and tenderness. with
the same hands. so yes the big bang. yes
the smoking gun proof of our arrival. the explosion
that says how we got here. that says yes
heaven is anything we can think of
and still isn’t as vast or perfect as space.
placed here how lucky we are I can’t say.
it’s too cruel or stupid to do so.

so. hope is either the thing with feathers or
combustible fuel and a countdown facing upward.
it is a dying or dead star still showing light
and taking up space in the necklace on the collarbone
of a constellation. original umbilical cord of stars strung together.
the blood trail all milky. way out there. then every one

of us but six still here. so let’s meet on some crushed rock
parking lot to crank our eyelashes skyward. curl them to space.
mascara them the color of open sky around asteroid. afterward
drag our woozy eyes away from our mirrors to see
our reflection past atmosphere. view our profile:
the curve we slice into the crescent.
past that: an act of looking at our baby pictures.
our puny hearts hoping out signals. let’s check
our teeth in the ozone layer. smile at those floating men
up there. ask them if from there they can smell the smoke.


———————————————————

Sally J. Johnson called us from Wilmington, NC.
More about Sally.

1-910-703-POEM

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Photoset

aestringer:

Based on a photo by Hu Yang.

(via funyeah)