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i just got back from lunch only to notice a glaring typo in my last post but tumblr won’t load the edit page ok fine let it stay and make me look like an idjit tumblr
And there are words I fall in love with
before I know what they mean.
Like mirabelle.
Don’t tell me yet what it is;
I want to savour how it sprouts
from my tongue, and rolls,
and closes my lips, and parts them
in a soft explosion, and how
it merges into the air
with a barely existent thud.
Don’t tell me what who you are,
if you love someone else, or
if you are as real as the mole on your chin.
I’ll love you, like this,
a sapling blooming, bursting,
catching me the imprint
of its fragrance.
howitzerliterarysociety replied to your post: wait
You don’t unfollow Lafonna man. It is known.
hahaha! that sounds like dothraki philosophy. “it is known”. :D
i don’t understand tumblr. i get people unfollowing because of inactivity/terrible quality of writing/spamming, but sometimes, i get unfollowed at very unlikely moments, which i find both perplexing and hilarious.
hmm.
did i really just lose a follower because of my last post? O…….O DO U PPL HV SUMTHIN AGAINST SEX? WHAAAAA
the best kind of people are the really cute ones that you wanna cuddle and drink hot chocolate and go for walks in the park and watch dumb movies and build blanket forts with but also slam up against a wall and fuck their brains out
My body is not a plum,
though red. Juicy. Soft.
Rounded where you want it.
A plum is not my sum
when we are in the mood.My body is not an apple,
though red. Loud. Hard.
You can’t fit me in a pocket.
In sleep, I am
within your reach; awake,
a nightmare that is teasing.My body is an orchard where
the weeding is optional;
a biosphere reserve
the government can’t police;
a planet untied to the sun.And I don’t bleed blue,
no matter what the ads say.
Well, I hardly think of myself as more
than anyone has the right to think I am,
including me. But then,
I see a Van Gogh painting,
somewhere, and I get defensive.
Inside a starry night,
the world melted, overrun. A painter’s earlobe
met gravity. We collectively gasped
only later on, too late. Thud.
Blue meeting yellow fluidly,
when all the red had bled,
and I said, I don’t want to be that.
I would rather be loved here, now,
in my yellowed animation,
earlobes pulled this way and that
by earrings – cheap and ephemeral.
Salamander
Soft is the sandblast,
holy its dispersal;
or that’s how spices are
flown through walls
when the winnowing is done.
Haven’t you heard?
The cinnamons are rioting.
The cumin seeds are rising
with cardamom bombs
and rifles of clove.
It’s violent
when saffron colours
your length and breadth,
the space above you,
the ground where your feet
rest
and you walk on coal
on fire,
salamander.
In their history books,
they forgot
in the deluge of history,
those fissures in your palms
where the pepper had sunk
in its scarlet anger.
She reached with arms abnormally long,
stacked, from all the times she asked her mother who her father was,
each time her mother pointed to an inanimate object and said “there he is”.
She learned to grow her arms long enough to wrap them around herself twice.
Once to fill the debt to her body that her father owed,
And again, to finish the grasp of her mother,
who never knew love but was an expert at abandonment.
If you ask her about her the length of her arms,
she will only remove her pants to show you her hips.
She will point to them and say “the true miracle is that between these two mounts Hagar ran seven times,between these two mounts there has been war and carnage,
between these two mounts there has been genocide,
between these to mounts there is revelation waiting ”
And if you’re lucky she will begin to dance, and her hips will move and shake, and her feet will pound the ground and her hands will fill with sky.
Her entire body will begin a rhythmic convulsion,
and your lungs will fill with air, sweet air ,
the likes of which you’ve never tasted.
And she will ask you if you like the taste of blood,
and you will look at her with slanted eyes,
but the taste of freedom is always disguised over the taste of blood spilt to find it. She will continue to dance,
and soon you will recognize the patterns of her feet, and the message of her hands.
Perhaps you will dance too,
touching your own hips wondering what lives between them,
pondering the different ways you can heal…
paranorman activity
this is making me lol so hard. love Paranorman to bits, tho.
