Gone: Vignettes about being rememberedThe OdysseyGone: Vignettes about being remembered by saevuswinds
Oh, how the ocean waves bash my ship, but seasickness is nothing when I feel the pain she left in my chest. Life pins me to the ground, beaching me on islands that only serve as distractions. Although I could have any goddess, it is the memory of her warm body against mine that allows me to fall asleep each night. So at midnight, I rise, taking a moment to spell her name in stars, and imagine that she’s curled up in the bed I made for her. She is the one who remembers me, despite admirers swarming her like wasps. In all my moments, the only time I could fall apart was in her arms. The waves may crash into me, and the journey may take away my youth, but I will still ride my way back home to my own personal Ithaca. This is where my lover is waiting for me, smelling like the violets and roses she tends to every morning.
Tao Te Ching
I once knew a man who loved another so much, he did not want to be remembered. He wrote poetry about being so flexible one could never be de
this is really short for 'i need reading glasses'my eyes have the heartthis is really short for 'i need reading glasses' by saevuswinds
of my mother.
dark circles highlight
grayish blue irises
which spasm and
blur the world.
i have been thinking
far too much
and far too l o n g.
my 'political' concern for the planetThe world warming crisismy 'political' concern for the planet by saevuswinds
has been called all-natural,
but the skyline is covered
with haze. Exhaust from one
billion cars cause Chinese fashion
to include medical masks outside,
yet arrogant Americans still claim
“there is no consequence to mistakes
such as pollution.”
ReportingThere were times where Drew Porter’s three room apartment was something to marvel at, but today, with dishes submerged in murky sink-water and clothes crumpled into the corner of her bedroom, was a day to be ashamed. The morning news spoke to her from the television as she slipped out of bed. Today: breezy with a chance of scattered showers. Tomorrow: thunderstorms. The next day: Drew didn’t even care to know. There was nothing to look forward to anymore. Forty-eight hours was long enough.Reporting by saevuswinds
Drew slid out of bed, letting the soles of her feet land on the cold wooden floor. As she slipped off her cotton nightgown, she grabbed the uniform hanging from the desk chair that her cat was also resting on.
“You know Fergus,” she said. “When I said I wanted to be a police officer, I didn’t mean a mall cop. I wanted to save people. Be a hero, you know?”
“Yeah I know, same old rant.” Drew put on the uniform, looking in the mi
Poor Wooden Puppymy poor wooden puppyPoor Wooden Puppy by BlackBowfin
has a leash
nailed into his throat
has no say
in what the other end
gets wrapped around
or tied to
and when we
walk and run
we roll, tangled
both as likely
to go backward
the where and when
bumps of where
we've already been
(or have we?)
his wooden nose
truth is, puppy
this world really is
its motors and belts
within everyday life
bodies and buildings
behind us, because
only what we want
and no one truly
Reasons Never to WriteYou’ll want someone exotic, and marry a Romanian. He’ll tell you to dye your hair and you’ll do it, then make chewing on its multicolored strands a habit. You’ll kiss him once and say he tastes like wine. Wine, no? he’ll say with a grin. Only gentlemen drink wine. You'll leave him because you won’t like cliches.
You’ll find a shadow behind a counter (because that’s the only way to describe him). You’ll watch him clashing silverware around in drawers like cold piles of bones, and he’ll give you a free slice of key-lime pie and say it’s the best in the state. You’ll lick up its tanginess on the prongs of your fork and decide that it’s not, but you won't pull away from his eyes that will remind you of your favorite crayon. Then he’ll look you up and down and say, another? You’ll decide to love him because anyone worth loving is worth a free slice of key-lime pie. You’ll make him kiss you even w
The PainterThe waves were still crashing, washing away the remnants of sand castles, long after the town was asleep and dreaming. Even the usual late night strollers were safely in their homes by this hour. The only movement came from the cool, salty breeze, the endless waves and a man. Just one man.
From a distance one might have assumed him to be nothing more than an unfortunate visitor's belonging left behind. He seemed but a shadow, a shapeless nothing. Upon a slightly closer inspection, one would find two things of importance: firstly, there was a rather large canvas placed immediately in front of him which was, as of yet, completely blank. Second, for a man who seemed to only be getting started with unpacking art supplies, he was covered in quite a lot of red paint.
As the wind picked up, the man continued his unpacking and then sat down, quite still. Slowly he turned his head and, it seemed, took in every detail of the silent beach. His gaze seemed to catch the waves and he stared a long w
4 Dead ChordsI’m here, with the darkness embracing me, trying to sleep. My eyes, full of tears, want to sleep, listening to those things that makes me feel bad in the middle of the night, listening to my thoughts written by other mind, but are mine. I know the reason of the sad midnight, when the sky has closed the window and no one can see the spirits, walking lonely roads.
Maybe I took another wrong way, or the wrong way took me, with a beautiful smile and deep black eyes, asking me if I was truly happy all this time without Starlight; I wasn’t, those days were wasted moments in my life. There’s nothing to see inside a womb, where you are isolated and peaceful with yourself, thinking about the day you had.
I’m drowning in memories, and cry, the droplets that my lung has.
eugenics in bulkBy the time she was twelve they had already decided she would marry a man who could run a five minute mile and speak seven languages. They chose her a husband the same way they had chosen her eyes and her legs and the pale freckles that interrupted her nose - the same way their parents had designed their children and arranged their marriages, strategic.
Her father called her petite reine. He owned an antique chess board carved from ebony wood and maple. Some days she'd sneak into the library, pry open the old chequered box and pick out one of the queens, and she'd turn it round and round, searching for imperfections. It was a plain, ugly thing, huge and fat in her tiny grasp. She had wondered if he thought of her this way.
She wondered the same now.
Her hands were not her own. A businessman in a white coat had grown them slender and strong, built her carbon fiber bones and nails like arrowheads. Her mother reminded her of this when the
everything is temporaryi have never been one to yell, it hurts my throat, or maybe i just lack the passion to get that mad at something. you always did bring out things that i never knew were inside though. we had matching bloodshot eyes, and the same fuck the world attitude running through our veins as if the world owed us something. it didn't then. but it does now. my blood is thick and burning and i want to try and flood it into yours to get the colour back into your cheeks that i just watched drain. i kicked the wall, and opened the window and screamed at the sky-scrappers and i don't know how the world can just keep fucking turning without so much a skipped rotation or a fucking stutter.
you turned small, minor things into giant fucking events that made my chest even tighter. a tickle in my throat, a spreading wildfire on the nape of my neck, a distinct lack of words or feelings to anything more than a lingering heaviness. i lost count of how many times i contemplated stepping in front of that car, bus,
The Airplane CrashedYou are still alive. The most terrifying moment of your entire life just passed and you survived it. Your heart shakes in your chest. You let out a long breath to slow it down.
Your seat creaks as you shift your weight. You test your left arm. It feels sore and overworked but not tight like it was. No heart attack then. Something pinches together in your gut and your insides slosh around. You grit your teeth against the pain and test the rest of your body. Right arm works. Your neck is sore but you can turn your head. Legs don't seem to be functioning. In fact you can't feel them at all.
Somewhere behind you, amid the groaning and crying, a fire burns. You can feel the heat on the back of your skull. You lift your hand and touch your hair, which falls away in a powder. You remember the fireball that ripped up the aisle. You ducked down before it rolled over you.
The fat man who sat beside you wakes up and immediately begins to scream bloody terror. You try to tell him that
Garden of MemoriesI remember when we used to fold paper flowers from the songs we wrote; humming along to the tunes, and tapping our feet to the beat of our hearts. The dots always meant more than words.
We thought we would never fall out of tune; that life's dissonance could never overpower our harmonies. Perhaps we were always too hopeful.
You took the flowers with you when you left, but the ghosts of the songs we made never faded. Now I tend to a garden of sound and memories, singing heartfelt melodies to myself. I only hope the roses never wither.
Zen HumorEat the strawberries.
Like some kind of Buddhist punchline, the stinger to the ultimate cosmic joke, that line keeps ricocheting around the inside of my head: a stray karmic bullet that's expending eons of built up energy by bouncing around my skull and turning my brain to salsa.
For the past three months, I've been coming to this coffee shop or that bar like I'm working two jobs, jobs where I imbibe mood-altering chemicals and make trite observations about the world for spiritual and monetary gain. In that time, I have smiled thrice: once when I closed my old bank account and shoved what little cash I had left into my pockets, once when my cat wagged his tail at me last week, and once when two drunk frat boys got into a fist fight over some blonde who didn't give a damn about either of them and left the bar before first blood was spilled. Eat the strawberries. Zen Buddhists have got a sick sense of humor, which was lost on the frat boys. It'
compulsive liar.once i asked you your favourite
colour, and you said, "the brown
of your eyes," so i put in one green
contact and told everyone that i
came out of the womb as a factory
defect, half-priced, damaged goods.
sometimes i am from canada and
sometimes i am from england and
sometimes i am from spain.
i've carefully tempered my accents
and plotted out my stories with
yellow and purple coloured pencils
on index cards. my origin changes
like the seasons.
"why do you lie to everyone?" you
"why not?" i reply.
i wear nametags that read "alicia"
and "liana" and "samantha," because
i want to know how it feels to be
someone else for a day.
you make me a nametag with my
real name on it, and i just laugh.
(later i slip it beneath my mattress
and spend the night staring at the ceiling.
see, i've tried myself on one too many
times, and the fit is never right.)
you call me your little compulsive
liar, and i guess that is supposed
to be somewhat affectionate.
i spin before the mir
biopsyput me under, cover my face, stuff my lungs with your chemical lies.
if they were to take me apart,
slice open my chest,
peel back the skin keeping me whole,
they would find:
a. one heart, slowly ticking.
(they would not find anything,
but they would have to say they did.
after all, girls can't live without a heart.
they forget that i'm not the first:
a score of girls walking even though
they should have faded long ago.)
b. each rib curved so perfectly,
a shield around my lungs.
(a cage, keeping my breath from bursting
out of my skin. know that this is just me,
held together by nature,
unable to lose control of myself.)
c. two sacs of cells, nestled beside each other.
(no first-hand smoke here, no sir.
only second-hand dust, only
things i could not get rid of,
only bits of places i've been,
caught in my body.
postcards of memories i can't see.)
d. a skeleton, still and alive.
(sleeping, with blood cells being produced
in the hollows of my curves.
the rattling of my bones cannot
The Uniform Commute of a Man Seeking Work and God Corrosion set in. my tie gangly
against the mint vintage attire
that my children wore to school.
momma' admitted she washed them
with her soaps like role models
that bore resemblance amongst a
plethora of troubled detergents
set to cleanse our hamper/bin(s)
in and out -- spanning a rioter
a race a king a hip protagonist.
their incandescent, brash bulbs
scattering philosophical school
houses into mass requiem diners
brooding a titanium feast, cold
with tenure. Bones dropping IQs
in simultaneous expressions for
urban reliquaries now dwindling
now cursing in unison against a
system. I drove a day in search
for god (doubtful) and existent
somewhere between the imaginary
mobile ocean of South L.A, C.A-
the whole of the promised land-
cut off by the pelting pool off
erings which encouraged cowards
to commit coexistent compliance
with other convenient wheelers.
this godless soap vibrating in.
from the foun