` loqui
today

loqui:

i’m gnawing through the cable, 
ensuring the signal 
doesn’t leak.  

i’m listening to the dissonance of opinion 
with a handful of keys. 

i’m waving the ocean closer 
to my one foot of dry land 

in the hope 
i’ll be swallowed 
by a world in which 
i need not hold my breath.

Plain

loqui:

Is it you, your voice I can hear? 
I keep an ear out, 
one hand, great fist 
down the throat 
and the other 
up, waving to the sky. 

I sit and watch the endless herds 
shuffle past, keeping schtum, 
teaching myself 
to pick out your face 
through the dust. 

The hardest part 
these days 
is not finding you, 
it’s not letting you stay. 

I see you
and I strike up
a conversation.
My mouth is shut
but my mind is alight.

the hurt of a mute earth

the throb of a stone
thrown from a great height 
 
over and over, like
weekdays. the face   
of a wheel. 

no wonder
we lose our tread. 

today

i’m gnawing through the cable, 
ensuring the signal 
doesn’t leak.  

i’m listening to the dissonance of opinion 
with a handful of keys. 

i’m waving the ocean closer 
to my one foot of dry land 

in the hope 
i’ll be swallowed 
by a world in which 
i need not hold my breath.

"I get drunk on dreams and choke on real life."
Wolferina (via salvatores)
"The hardest part 
these days 
is not finding you, 
it’s not letting you stay."
loqui, (via slow-blink)

freefallinletters:

my thighs, wires
quiver to the song
of his name

my bones, tomes, 
quake thunder   
under her gaze 

  • Q: Why poetry can be hard for most people?
  • Dorothea Lasky: Because speaking to the dead is not something you want to do when you have other things to do in your day; Because life is no more important than eating or fucking or talking someone into fucking or talking someone into something or sleeping calmly and soundly. And all you can hope for are the people who put that calm in you or let you go into it with dignity. Because poetry reminds you that there is no dignity in living; You just muddle through and for what? No. Poetry is hard for most people because of sound.
Close your eyes and I will tell you a story

"Don’t tell me the moon is shining; 

show me the glint of light on broken glass.”

~Anton Chekhov



We don’t have to kiss. 
I’ll type the fingers of a petal-flesh pianist 
along a swan’s neck
and watch it give away 
its question. 

We don’t have to be in the same room. 
I’ll exhume a thousand histories 
of fresh gardens blooming  
from the battlegrounds 
of wars against the world’s walls 
and there we’ll paint a private haven. 

We don’t have to touch. 
I’ll write time as fluidly as calligraphy 
into the story of how I get from there 
to here, and you will feel every moment. 

We don’t have to see  
to enter each other’s bodies. 
Close your eyes and listen closely: 
This is the sound of summers humming 
through the window, the cotton clouds 
of bedsheets under our skin, 
the dewy air of spring trickling down 
our foreheads and between our limbs, 
the sex of angel’s breath we inhale, 
the red lips of every fire, the water
of every tear gone by, 
the end of the world and the beginning 
of the world as we know it. 
Volcanic - as shaken - remade 
and settled as an island anew.