Oh Sweet September

Sep 6, 201211 min read

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Published: Sep 6, 2012

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_{This is a feature for some people whose work I have been loving.

XaiaTheSnail:
Her work needs more attention. The imagery and feeling in her poems are phenomenal. My favorite line is:
"I want to kiss the big bang into your scars
and find your smile in the horizon." Gorgeous!
:thumb309086948: :thumb309095510: :thumb309088355:

ampersandheart:
Her poems have such a wonderful ebb and flow to them. The images she creates are all so vividly breathtaking.
My favorite line is:
"roaming through the era of your alabaster baby breath"
:thumb325036360: :thumb324217314: :thumb322423402: :thumb319154250:

whore-tense:
His poems are a bit darker but they consume you for the moments in which you read them. Absolutely delicious work! One of my favorite line's is:
"with red rust river, flowing through my body like God's tears"

ReopeningIt's been years since my skin was flood ravished
with red rust river, flowing through my body like God's tears.
I savored the taste of it all; they were my
only pills after all.
lengthwise slices dried up and connect
like constellations in space making paths I never knew existed.
(and they were patches with many hues
                                    that I love seeing every day.)
blanket of violet night  sky covered me
(like never ending net to grab and hold me.)
And tonight violent water drizzles over my limped body;
incoherent shards slides over—kissing
my tattered paper skin—once again.

Alternativesi.
When the Earth cracks open,
all of the flowers will walk
out of that cesarean slit
and greet this yellow day
with book-shelved paradise held captive by
empty caves and taverns
of illness and poison
                                    wine.
ii.
The world is a slick canvass
with paint sliding off—trying to paint
different pictures than which is intended.
*
(we may always cry to crack open
                        something glass-perfect
to make it                                        &
ExcusesWhen the sun breaks the gray sky
and peaks through my stained-glass window
to kiss my lids open with a million spectrums,
I would dare shut it black
and go back to an eternal slumber.
There are epitaphs of reasons
why the bed became my coffin:
1.
The thunder crack roar
of backstabbing whispers
still pierces my spine—
the blades are still paralyzing me
and they never stop.
The stabbing never stops.
2.
The caffeine had stopped working.
My insides are done sucking the expired pills.
My mind is a ticking time bomb
ready to explode at a given time—
ready to break my sanity
that through a snap of a finger,
straitjacket of alarm clocks
and failures would cover me.
3.
I am still drowning over the tears and the wax—
crystal rain drops flowing like rivers
on the face of my friends;
their weak smiles melting
like waxes of short-lived candles
because of some ashtray of a paper
says they are not good enough
that they are a bunch of garbage
left to rot on a trash can.
4.
I'm a living

momo-madness:
She tells beautiful stories within her poetry and I haven't read a poem of her's that I haven't liked. One of my favorite line's is:
"her ribcage burst into flowers as her lungs swam to sea"

a siren's song.her ribcage burst into flowers
as her lungs swam to sea
and the world was silent
-like a film set on mute-
as it watched her dance
into her coral grave.
she grinned and laughed
and all you could hear
was the metallic scraping
of her tongue on her teeth
as her coppery laugh
fell into the ocean-
like a penny onto concrete.
her hair was a tangle of seaweed
drenched in brine
and adorned with salt flecks
that caught the sun in waves
crashing along the shoreline
in the treble notes of symphonies.
ensnared in wanderlust,
she ran towards the current
in hopes of finding herself
among the lost.
there
she wore fish-scales
on her clavicle
and sung her way down
to the bottom of atlantis.
the ships out at bay that day
only remember one thing:
she sunk like the titanic,
her bones tearing at the seams
and all that remained of her
were two hands
(whose knuckles were mountains
and skin was land)
receding into the curls
as the earth drowned into the sea.
and there was nothing left on the horizon
but t

glossolalias:
His poems usually have a very sultry vibe to them and they really reel you in with an insane amount of imagery. One of my favorite line's is:
"bowed to the heat of an indian summer,
clutched in effeminate hands—"

tea leavesyour color
collects at
the bottom
of my mug,
green sickly
and letting
my teeth stain—
ivory,
you loved me
homogenous.
nightmaresthey are the recurring that
scatter like cockroaches when
the sun rises in the mess; they rest
in synap-crevices and whisper
chemical impulse to overdose,
to draw an unbidden hand against
the skin that tempts—
and it always felt better to give
than to get because you never
liked to have our eyes on you,
hateful crawling nuisance in the
give of your flesh, reminding
you— it never felt bad...
does it hurt, when i scratch my
gums until they bleed to rid
myself of your eggs? festering
devils, you are cowards of the
darkest places and speak only
when you let us, when
you're weakest, when you face
the things you loathe and you've
never hated anyone more than
you hate yourself—
but i can always turn on
the light.
SeptemberRed leaves bowed to condensation,
the curdled air upon our skin;
black birds were carried on a breeze
exempt from Autumn's sullen temper.
I sought beneath great folds of flesh
colored by the sunrise and bedsores,
arousing the vessel unbefitting
for the natural beauty of your charm.
Though unsatisfied, I yielded,
eyes closed to your piggish flush,
the sopping paste of your thighs,
those tiny irises dull as paint chips.
You admired me but soon discovered
I cringed beneath your every breath,
weak in the heat of an Indian Summer,
clutched by wet effeminate hands.
You have been alone since then,
pining for the yellow flowers of June
with too much sadness to resent me,
even when the winter fell at once.
I still revere the sculpt of your mind:
if you call, I will listen raptly
with a pierced yet unprejudiced ear;
if you die, I will write the eulogy
in the voice of a bereaved mourner;
if you wait, I may return to you
like a butterfly nostalgic for milkweed,
but today, I am vain.

Third-person:
He writes a lot of haiku and they are simple yet still complex, powerful pieces. One of my favorite line's:
"Bright orange street light
Webs sagging with dead flies"

It's still hereSummertime lingers,
not in the cold slate grey skies,
but in memory
Street light and spiders         1
Bright orange street light
Webs sagging with dead flies
Well fed spiders rest
         2
A tall grey street light.
Below webs glint pale orange
Insects dance around
         .5
Street light
Orange glow
Spiders wait while Flies dance
RealisationI never noticed
until you were forced to let go
How high you held me

Aatlein
Her writing has such fresh, ripe qualities to it. Every word seems to delicately chosen. One of my favorite line's is:
"for time's parentheses
made of raw fish and wild
herbs"

Doi luangunquenchable
under pine trees carved in shadows
noble
you gave me
a thousand-year-old rose
and the seconds
elapsed
around the bend of a secret
path
Aatlein 2012
Body of Feelingsmy last spring
in rice fields leaning between
your arms cher monsieur
doll floating on top of the
world
delighted by bubbling
flesh – the candied lemon
grass in the sea; chewing
your blond locks
outside of myself in each of your
gestures. Waiting
for time's parentheses
made of raw fish and wild
herbs
Aatlein 2011
dragonflythe sting of the needle
- yaba
i hear you calling
within my aurora womb
(where the water lily blooms)
blue winged, delicate
you hover and fly
away
Aatlein 2011

TwilightPoetess
I have featured her before but I don't care, I'll do it again for some of her newer poems! One of my favorite line's is:
"Lions prowl--
skin taught over ribs
and eyes gleaming--
down my spine
at your hungry glance;
caught in Africa's wake"

Chasing RabbitsThere's a rabbit
crouched deep,
tangled in my veins;
he's shaking my ribs,
reminding me
I've got him caged
beneath my collarbones.
I can't stand
much more of the twitching,
the fur tickling my breaths
as he searches
for an escape.
I want him out,
but I don't think
stomping my foot
and telling him
how unfair it is
that he's choking me
with his little rabbit doubts
will work.
I shouldn't have made
the space near my heart
such a nice place
for him to move into.
Won't be Tamed--C.Lions prowl--
skin taught over ribs
and eyes gleaming--
down my spine
at your hungry glance;
caught in Africa's wake,
I run with gazelles
and pray
I'm fast enough
to escape you.
I am blinded by dust particles flying from under my feet as I chase the horizon, cross-country running on injured cheetah legs. You are hunting me; I hear your silent footwork over the mob-like stampede, and I am alone, pursued by your sharp, amber gaze.
My bones tremble at your
hasty steps, and blood,
flitting to my stomach.
My weary legs finally buckle
at the crack of your howl
and I tumble forward until
my mouth fills with sand--
my rusted tongue cannot
fathom a cry.
Hyenas laugh, high-pitched and manic, a sliver of hope lodged in their scavenger eyes, and you tower over me, a curl to your lip and tension in your spine. You let loose a jaguar's yowl, jaw gaping wide. I can almost see your tail whipping through the air and your ears laid low on your head, and it isn't the dessert, gritty and fierce under my p
Sleeping SunCrickets, hidden
in hydrangeas, rouse
a sleeping sun.}

Comments11

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momo-madness

Sep 9, 2012

_{this is so incredibly lovely and tailored to each writer in such a loving way. i am truly honored to be featured with such wonderful writers and by such a wonderful person like yourself ♥}

Oh Sweet September

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New Website, Tumblr, etc.

Stripped

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Milk (a book)