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More from ~angel-in-pieces

.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
.minerva .

Dawn, and Minerva murmurs from the riverbank.
She's watching scrolls of blue mist drag the lake,
unfurling remnants of a drowned world in its wake:
a glint of fish-tail scales, the torn leaves of love letters,
the bloated bulk of a plastic bag.

She takes a piece of each and logs them in her book
of things she took from history, picked from the pockets
of time. Each has a story to tell: a singed feather; an empty
snail shell. The twisted limb of a tree. Each sings
with its own broken flutings, its own fractured poetry.

          When the rivulet where we are borne and met dredges u
Dog Days This year, the dog days flung
a layer of smog over Moscow;
hung a stray aurora glow
over smoke-choked streets.
A fleet of trees, collapsed black
on themselves like matryoshka dolls,
was licked clean by the keen
tongues of flames - a scar
beneath the wildfire eye
of the dog star.
.venus .

Venus broke the night. She sucked back the stars
and started to shine with her own brightness. Sick
of cold equations and mathematical divisions, all
these diametric fixations, she preyed for a collision;
for the moon to tap into the craters beneath her fingernails.
This, she called The Pruning - the sculpting of Edens
out of satellites and solar winds, wound round her sides.

She's tithed to her own tides, moodswung as a river
cut through her insides. She's happiest when her blood
is flooded with lovers swept into her depths, sunk into
astral sockets and crater lakes. Dreamdrunk on Venus'
sweet venom, bloated with pride, they fl
.vesta .

It is time. We feel the pull of summer along our spines
as we head into hibernation. Bed is short respite for our leaden limbs,
our singed hair. The air aches with the wait of it, where the embers
click and sing like crickets. Snippets of sound from the underground.
"This," someone says, wide-eyed with awe, "is what the insides
of the earth look like" - the world beneath, struck through with
dragons' teeth, pocked with open sores. The slit smile of the crater
in a slack jaw. Our scarred skies are littered with lights, many
mechanical suns spun into the ceiling, glinting like electric sequins.

And in the middle of it all, where our
.ceres .

Harvest rolls round again. We root up the ground, and in the remains,
bury our dead. One day, it's said, she'll just stop loving us. Stop giving.
There is a limit to all things. To every word, half-bitten back
in the cheek; to every outstretched reach; to every breath, choked
down. Ceres, the devoted. The sorrowing. Note: the two are remote
yet inseparable. To mother is to hold love in one hand, loss in the other,
and fix them into the bone cradle of your chest, right and left.
       It is a savage rite of passage.

So when Ceres steps from cities of corn to streets of crowded houses,
the fields

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March 31, 2010
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Paracusia...

by ~angel-in-pieces

Hello?
Who's there?
//
Hell-
O
.


Dusk, a pocketful
of dust - the old rhyme
of time re-re-repeats itself
once more. I watch
the corners of the sky
fold into night, peeling
black as I sit
slack across the broken jaw
of the day. My mind's
wearing thin, fraying
at the edges, catching
voices
in its tendrils -
                     atmospheric//
//interference.

.

O my people, I
hear your cries - I
spit your lies
and scratch your truths
into ether. Your
unheard words weather
the storms of sick
seas to reach
my ears. You play
on fears; my hopes, my
tears - your whispers
whittle at flayed
nerves. Is this
what I deserve -
the torment of
seething sighs and fleeting
tones bleating
beneath the bones?

I
am blessed
with the unrest
of an empty
chest. At seven,
I sang in circles of salt
and sold my soul
to the sea.

It was out of that blue
that you grew - you
knew what you could do
to a girl with a hole
in her heart, marked
as prey, with all
the right symptoms: the
crystal fractures, the split-
ends, the fresh-cut kether
of broken teeth or hair. You
tore my peace
to pieces, ate my
prayers like
air.

O my people:
my breathless voices, my
hollow hauntings,
spilt blood
of none:
I am un-
done

.

Now our burnout eyes
will watch embers rise
and /split/ the husk
of the
sun -
:iconangel-in-pieces:
Full title: Paracusia: Symptom of Sick Seas

Paracusia - otherwise known as auditory hallucinations // hearing voices.

Although it used to be believed that only the mentally ill heard voices (it is a common symptom of schizophrenia), recent research has shown that as many as one in twenty-five people regularly hears voices.

Mine just like to have fun with language...

((Inspired by T.S. Eliot :heart: ))
:icon:
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:iconsmicket:
~smicket Apr 1, 2010  Student Artist
Hearing voices is NOT an indicative symptom of schizophrenia (they can't commit you for having it if you hear them) so that statistic is perfectly normal! We did a big study on it in psychology.

LOVE "Dusk, a pocketful
of dust"

Not sure "blest" is a word though? Would it not be "bless'd" or something? Juuust checking!

--
Gerard, Gerard, there's something in the tent Gerard...
Reply
:iconangel-in-pieces:
~angel-in-pieces Apr 1, 2010  Student Writer
So many people think that hearing voices is a symptom of some kind of psychosis though, which really annoys me. There's so much stigma around hearing voices that there really shouldn't be, as there are with many things related to mental illness...

Nah, blest is a word, although bless'd is too... it's just kinda shakespearean... :XD:

Thanks muchly~ :heart:

--
I am as tall as my shadow, tall as stories... ♥
Reply
:iconsmicket:
~smicket Apr 1, 2010  Student Artist
AHHH we did a big section on stigma and how it affects people with mental illness as well! I really need to show you my psych notes!

But I AM Shakespearean!

Lol at your icon btw :p Gaga ftw.

--
Gerard, Gerard, there's something in the tent Gerard...
Reply
:iconangel-in-pieces:
~angel-in-pieces Apr 1, 2010  Student Writer
Yes, I must see them some time! I really wish I'd done psych at times like this...

Haha, true story... ;P

Lol, I'm jealous of yours! Although the twilight ones are megalol :XD:

--
I am as tall as my shadow, tall as stories... ♥
Reply
:iconsmicket:
~smicket Apr 5, 2010  Student Artist
Actual lolll. Ah, sorry about the badge! :p

--
Gerard, Gerard, there's something in the tent Gerard...
Reply
:iconangel-in-pieces:
~angel-in-pieces Apr 5, 2010  Student Writer
Gimme badge nao, dammit!
*cough*
I mean, I would muchly appreciate a badge, amigo. It's not as if I'm collecting them or anything, I'm just... obsessed? :XD:

--
I am as tall as my shadow, tall as stories... ♥
Reply
:iconangel-in-pieces:
~angel-in-pieces Apr 1, 2010  Student Writer
You have however, just made me realise that 'blest' is the wrong tense! Fail! I shall amend that now... :XD:

--
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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