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from eggs come birds, from foreign substance comes decisions slapped in a blue face and shown reality for its tiny little insecure bothering of brainwaves fucking with radiowaves
squirt and to the point? finger my pulse and tell me i could definitely be more pure but otherwise i'm coffin-shoppin' with the rest of simple problems
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Seven Ember Stories 9.17.22 “Soil and Trouble”
The land can feel the storm Before the first cloud has formed There is a sense I cannot hear, Nor taste, nor smell, nor touch That pulls away the tide Awakening the sand and soil Before the sky darkens And the animals have fled Seeking high ground and shelter I will be laying in the overflow field Counting clouds and planes trails Unaware of the worms terror Or the tidal recession There is a spark inside of me I will see reflected in the sky If we connect We both shall surely perish If only the earth could tell me Of the coming ruin
@env0writes C.Buck (Poem & Photograph) Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0 Support Your Local Artist!
Frost Heave
knowledge
comes to me
slowly
like artifacts
revealed by
melting snow
silent and
ominous
refusing to
show their
purpose
impatience
is my drug
of choice
urging me to
race through
this sparse
landscape
littered
with
half formed
thoughts
and vague
assumptions
hoping to bring
some closure
to this journey
but the nature
of this frozen world
forces me to slow down
and admire the icicles
The house is yellow. Nothing should be yellow.
I live in the house like a sailor or a ghost.
Did you knock on the door? You probably knocked
on a lot of doors. Doors are everywhere
like flies in the forest. Like trees in the forest.
Trees are many. Days are short.
Nights are boats. You are the phantom
at the helm and I the survivor. Standing
at the window looking out. Maybe death
when it first arose was meant to be easy
like summer. Like rain on the ocean. Like
fresh paint on a house in slow decay.
life is not about trying to calm the storm but about finding someone who you can hold on to so you can ride the waves together @which-craft-me
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I would choose mom and you
The Naughty Nutcracker
She was a stripper, usually went by Nicolette (but around the holidays, she went by Holly or Noelle.) We shared a cigarette down on the East Side. She told me about the Naughty Nutcracker-- a sex act that can't really be described in words. She had to draw a diagram on a diner napkin. I still don't understand some parts of it, but I remember her saying how it killed a man once, in Tennessee. How it's illegal in twenty-three states. How, if it's executed perfectly, you have this perfect moment where all the good memories sparkle like a Christmas tree, full of gifts and candy. And there's this slight taste, like nutmeg, in the back of your throat. A reminder. You believe in Santa Clause, and Jesus holds your hand for a moment. We finished the cigarette, and I took her story-- wrapped it in the shiny paper and left it under the tree. For you. -- S. E. De Haven
The Throat
The throat produces truths as well as lies: this is the contradiction of the throat. The throat produces groans as well as sighs.
The phantoms live with angels on that moat. ripples go in circles going nowhere. This is the contradiction of the throat:
compliments and slander without fanfare— one just finds one's self in sudden sin. Even tongues and lips would wish for somewhere
safe to rest their weary muscles in. Nevertheless, throats are unforgiving. Listening is dead and none would win—
everyone is trite and unconvincing. No: you are your throat and truth and lying.
— A. Prescott
