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More from ~angel-in-pieces

.mercury .

It is the magnetism that brings him back,
back, to the indigenous days of May, with its
terrestrial tilt and cadence of moonshine.
That, or the wide smile of a rift – a chink
or broken link in time.

That's it: it's simply scientific, he tells himself;
the puckered truths, traded dreams, the guilt –
it's all just a trick of kinetics, the fevered frictions
(or fictions) of the messenger. Esoterics.

But still. It's with pursed lips he meets the rip –
the shafts of split light that belt Orion
like snakes stitched at the hip, or a cruel twist
of fate, quick as silver. And this time there's no note
for him to relay or
Earthspun Home is held in a dark place, a dank place,
beneath the musted plates of glass where, once,
I curled and crept into the rusting lungs of some cabbagepatch god.
Here, words are trapped, tapped into the husks
of my fingernails, the mouldering beds of marrow.

In the silence, I have learned to turn and face the wall;
to let the earth knot and clot in the back of my throat.
My tongue is swollen to a bulb: a stopped geranium that's fixed to falter,
enthralled by the depths at which I can slumber without
going under. In this silence, I have learned to burn

and breathe beneath my breadth. O the beauty of usage!
I will weight in this angle
Operation Enduring - Once in a while, it rains. And it rains hard.
A dislocated pictogram remains of the past:
the shafts of broken glass, the wedding ring picked
from the ash, the rag and bone anatomy that's
strewn across the street. Under the tin shell of a bunker,
the people stuttered to defeat whilst waiting out the storm,
watching as the debris of their lives is sunk into the sands
of Helmand province. A man laid waste land.

This is home, someone says of a lean-to:
a couple of knotted sheets, the smell of old blood.
Next door houses heartache, Hell.
There's an open wound in the concrete
where it's been blasted back into a gaping,
a hunger. The c
.neptune .

After the months spent in utero, walking feels strange.
Ground is sound in colour, synaesthesia beneath the heels,
watered down to reveal a horizon of endless blue, and Neptune.
Opening himself like a oracle. He is all mouth: a throat
of thunder, teeth a string of binary numbers. Kether of kelp,
barnacle bones strewn in every bottled message, each letter of
HELP scrawled into the shoreline. A missing-person clue.

Feet rubbed raw, he heads for the ocean, where those water-
logged wishers wash such surface wounds with their salted tears.
It's a pain that's only real when you're reeling, that you can only
find when hanging from fish
.apollo .

Apollo, sleepcrawler, trawls the sky between day and night.
Behind him, the sun enters like a dreamer, shattered. Kite-
boned and obstinate, he soars toward time, dragging the raw
white eye of light, fixed inside beside the solar plexus.
[Just another dead weight.]

This, he knows, is important. There are few things you can learn
from a ball of burning gas and light eight minutes too late, but
from his aerial migrations he's made several notations on life.

   One : to shoot stars, you must become bulletproof. Collect your
   heirlooms in the hatch of the attic, patch the holes in your roof,
 
.juno .

Summer seeps back into focus once again, and Juno
spends the moonless nights bending back into spilt-
oil images of sleep, lulled slick in a gulf cradle. She
dreams of tar babies, dredged from the deep, sucking
thumbs and fingers that spread oceanwide with the tide.
Each cry is sunken to a slumber, whilst someone shuffles
and mumbles excuses about fishbones caught in throats
and how no-one knew nightmares could float on water.

Only with heels congealed together could the tar children
translate the runes of an ocean beaten back into the ruins
of its own past, or understand how casting hydrocarbon-cut
ruts in the sea floor has sca

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Paper Planes

by ~angel-in-pieces

Sometimes it feels as if the world is
turning in on itself, and that I too
am curling up, folding away, and

learning how to fly.
For we were all born
from the insides of stars,

spouting words and colourforms
and every shade of moth-backed night imaginable.
Even me and my stitches.

And to stardust we'll return.

Maybe I'll fade through this filtered sunlight,
back to me at five,
discovering the world underwater:

the sun split and scattered across the surface;
the mouths puckered, full of streams; the skin
that flickered and wavered like a mirage

that was not your own. Floating:
that feeling of weightless freedom.
And maybe -

dustclouds opening across my eyes -
I'll be able to come up for air
once more.
:iconangel-in-pieces:
I keep getting urges to write poetry at the moment. I hope to use this opportunity over the holidays to get as much practice in as possible!

Any critique or constructive criticism is more than welcome, as always~
:icon:
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:icon520romeo:
~520romeo Aug 22, 2010  Student Writer
beautiful language and style :heart:
Reply
:iconangel-in-pieces:
~angel-in-pieces Aug 22, 2010  Student Writer
Thanks! I'm glad you like it :hug:

--
I am as tall as my shadow, tall as stories... ♥
Reply
:iconsmicket:
~smicket Jan 4, 2010  Student Artist
:O Love this one! Wasn't sure if the 3-line stanzas would work, but they totally do.

--
Gerard, Gerard, there's something in the tent Gerard...
Reply
:iconangel-in-pieces:
~angel-in-pieces Jan 4, 2010  Student Writer
Thank you, smicket! ♥
I didn't originally use three-line stanzas, actually, they just kind of happened in the end. But I think it turned out better that way. :)

--
I am as tall as my shadow, tall as stories... ♥
Reply
:iconsmicket:
~smicket Jan 6, 2010  Student Artist
Oh yeah, I like it like that. I'm glad it did turn out that way!

--
Gerard, Gerard, there's something in the tent Gerard...
Reply
:iconartifice-child:
~artifice-child Jan 2, 2010
such images here; lovely ebb and flow in the backbone of this piece.

--
ar·ti·fice (är'tə-fĭs) n.
1. an artful or crafty expedient; a stratagem.
2. subtle but base deception; trickery.
3. cleverness or skill; ingenuity.


i refuse to conform to nonconformity.
Reply
:iconangel-in-pieces:
~angel-in-pieces Jan 3, 2010  Student Writer
Thank you very much! I'm glad you liked it~ :hug:

--
I am as tall as my shadow, tall as stories... ♥
Reply
:icon:
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Dawn, February 29th I drive all night,
following the skyline
through the trees
until I reach your side, deer.

It's something about the way
you're lying, mid-leap,
as if sleep has taken you unawares
that stops me there.
And it's your eyes that hold me,
your unseeing gaze
that somehow holds me whole
in the haze of the moonlight,
on the rim of the world.
Like that moon,
you have run yourself blind,
unfurled
as if in a dream.

And it seems
your legs are broken, yet
in my headlights
you rise like heat
to the place where night
and day finally meet.Dawn, February 29th by ~angel-in-pieces
Case History We find you
where you had fallen:
face to the blue,
the wall between this world
and the next. You'd
slipped, perhaps, lost
your footing and now you flew –
webbed fingers outstretched,
your kelpie hair strewn
behind you. Your lips
are chapped and blue
as if bitten by frost or fishes,
the words choked back
in your throat as you open out
like an oracle, begin to bloat.
Your skin is starting to scale.
But you don't notice – in fact, you float
so serene, I wonder
if you've always been blind
and weightless, like an astronaut
tethered to the stars.

We find you
where you broke apart –
a balloon
loosed
from a chCase History by ~angel-in-pieces
By Heart Now that I have your face by heart
I look to piece the other parts
of you together – less your lips, your eyes,
like a knife-thrust, bright as dawn skies,
than the shadows gathering in your wake,
the bruises left by every heartache.
I long to drown in the depths of you,
to feel the waves breaking over me, the moon
inhaled, exhaled, cancelling out the sun.
I want to watch the lettercut light come undone
in awe of you, to see the stars run blind and tear
the very fabric of the sky. To hear
my heartbeat breaking on the same
shore as yours, time after time -

calling your name,
calling you mine.By Heart by ~angel-in-pieces
Girl, Fifteen, To A Lover She'll Never Meet Thursday nights are silver screened.
At nine, it's time once again to air
the prelude to a dream.
I wait, eyes square, for the immaculate
contours of your face to appear:
the features of a lover I'll never meet.

It seems strange to say
(a kind of admission of defeat),
but to be honest I'm OK
with the pause, rewind, replay
that makes up our relationship.
You have to admit,
knowing I'd never flip
channels or walk out when
you're in a scene
is a devotion, of sorts.
I expect nothing in return.
I know you know nothing of me.

But I can't help but love you;
your close-ups, your scripted smile,
the way you lean towards the screen
Girl, Fifteen, To A Lover She'll Never Meet by ~angel-in-pieces
Wintering It's a canvas of mouthings,
of open throats, that wave of grey.
Storm clouds pass like sails torn,
loosing their limbs to the wind
with each stroke of the brush.
There's a symphony in the rush
of them, howling their wolfcry, O -
breathings holes into the fabric,
Lethe leaving their lungs. And low,
tugging at the hymns that line the sky,
the moon, sister of a stone,
rises, rises with her hood of bone.Wintering by ~angel-in-pieces
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