May 2010
1 post
thecigarettelover.tumblr.com
July 2009
2 posts
"iris" - aiija →
June 2009
4 posts
R.I.P
Michael, I shall never forget the ways in which you touched me.
dear inconnu,
I write this in French because I do not want you to read this. Only because there is nothing here but words and thoughts and wishes. There are somedays I hear you when you speak to him through the pillow and you tell him all you want to do is scream and kiss and touch and fuck and become him because all you know how to do is mimic. You want to burn as his brilliant sun and know that without you...
acholiland
we were young brown children with native tongues with bullets passing through trying to catch our faith and running souls. mama stayed planted to the earth with her god-stomach. she didn’t cry when they caught her soul. she didn’t bleed the colors of man. she didn’t listen to the birds and pleads of children, but reached for dad and my sister, buried deep in the eye of her...
THE CREEK;
the war that was fought across her collarbone meant causalities fell down the long narrow road of her sternum toward a place that cannot be home nor anywhere but where the dreams go when their dreams have writhed in their beauty and died in her arms like her unborn child seeped from her barren womb with his mouth. she fell down again last night.
May 2009
6 posts
THE GARDEN
everlasting is the language of your tongue, as swahili, as we journey along godshead and in the silence is when the sun bends around the sea and I watch as it descends into the gold of your hair and there is something like love that moves through me when you turn to face me but all I see is a silhouette with this streaming hair: “you need to learn to read the bible in Latin because...
WEIGHT
we are crushed as weight and water and it is not quite the same: you are the weight and I am the water, and we are, sometimes one.
SECRET ONE:
i know he will never read this. for that i am happy. i miss him more than i can bear. i have let him strip me worse than cancer could yet the emptiness feels like home. somedays i hope she gives him everything i can’t; somedays i hate this faceless girl. i struggle constantly not to let myself go back to this pitful state and yet i would. if he asked for my life, it would be much easier than...
SOMETIMES;
do you refuse to forget the dark spot of your heart?
where it is all crumbled inside?
have you forgotten where to go when
your body aches for love, sometimes?
ABOUT KARMA ----
stared at the trees and wondered why they bow, seem so heavy with blossoms never meant to open and reminds me too much of breasts I wish were creamy as her half-crescent face lips puckered like a half-attempted smile working too well into the ruins of my thighs. she ruined karma for me as we played chicken in the streets wagering my heart against her sex and it was all the same, then. instead, i...
IF ONLY;
icarus, if only you hadn’t gotten so close to the sun and fallen, your wings could be mine and we could erupt foolishly into our own creatures.
April 2009
3 posts
Dear Isobel, I am as untitled as my latest poems...
yellow evenings;
I am not sure what to say anymore that hasn’t already left me. Or if my mouth has resurrected itself from slumber or if the ghosts of my footsteps have been heard. for every part of me, you have dug your hands deep into my veins, garbled bits of alien tongue that dispatches the turbulent seas and wonders if the woman in me will rise, with the stroking of thighs. from soft moans and bare...
washed these words;
I dreamt of a land of sand,
where the wind blew through and mourned.
I have swallowed suns as crowns
for no single song will ever bring me back.
washed these words in the slush of
how easy it is to forget one’s self and find us
on the pedestal, balancing these piano gravestones
and God,
in shaky foreign tongues.
the milky cast over your eyes
will not be freed by my mouth or tears
or...
March 2009
7 posts
9ways;
Nine ways I have regurgitated you and swallowed you back down. Yes, I can remember this one clearly, in austere nights that ended in God and memories I’d rather loose in the crevices of my pillow.
the dusty plate, in my house
I woke with notes playing across an empty house where a dead flower was the pressing of memories, where it opened its mouth and became a cross of ashes to sweep the slopes of my breasts—where my faith is nine ways of remembering the dusty plate I ran my finger through in an attempt to resuscitate God.
la pequeña mujer;
a veces me encuentre en ella cuando se mueve el polvo se asienta bailando en el aire como una polilla con alas plegables a uno mismo en el borde de las notas de suicidio nunca dice mucho entre los dos más; arcos de la curva abierta hacia el interior para mantener la salida de su a dos pasos de collasping en sí misma como una baraja de cartas — a veces me encuentre en ella septiembre 1947...
We made symphonies of flesh as Mozart and...
march 11th confession;
I’m sitting in the library thinking of him. Next to me is my backpack - one that I often mistreat by making it carrying the burdens of my life. Books, keys, loose papers, and drinks to keep my going through the day, while others make fun of me. Sometimes, I laugh too; other times, I want to defend it, because it carries my heart as well.
Not safely but better than most ever have.
morning in the pillow —
am a small boathouse when I rise in the mornings, then press my face into the wrinkled pillows sleeping while a prophet’s face memorizes the curve of my thighs. and I wonder, ashamed, if I’m bitter
sweetheart, one last tale;
I left her behind with a child, for the war held my old heart, until a bullet passed through, separating the physical body from the soul. Tell her I’m sorry.
February 2009
34 posts
to smile once more
There are no wrinkles set into her face and no unhappiness that touches the corner of her mouth. There are no hesitation near the eyes or regret on the flesh of her neck, only the tilt of the head and the lips as they pout and she speaks softly to me. I’ve smiled. Pressed between the yellowed pages, she rises like a phantom who has dived deep into the sea of words and become a manifesation...
anoxeric girl
you always talk about the lack of substance that will rumble into your stomach, the cans of food that land sideways, that you swallow every fear you have, every faithless sperm of the men who claim to love you, every molestation of every child abused, but you never tell me how it feels to stick your fingers down your throat, into the cast of obilivion, parting the moist flesh to swallow...
you are the yearning in my piano songs.
departure of soil
the moon with it’s broken pieces, makes me curl in it’s craters and wish I am wrapped in the sun’s glorious rays stirring beneath the promise of your brown eyes. i pray i will never lose your face, to my restless disgrace most times our connection is the endings of the cigarettes you smoke finding its way into my dreams;
I choke,...
“Sometimes, I wonder what it might feel like to throw glitter at the moon and...”
–
the woman in pew 15
the fifteenth pew is always empty save for one woman praying for the return of her husband; he left years ago, with shakened moans and tobacco stains still upon her wedding dress.
at 4 this morning
aidases: I've never had a Sloppy Joe. Until tonight.
kittyfxcksl8: Seriously?
aidases: Yeah.
kittyfxucksl8: Chick, you're late.
aidases: Then, you're a loser for only eating them on buns. I eat them with rice and cheese. Halloumi back!
Songs Of The Day;
Thinking Of You - Katy Perry
Broken Strings - James Morrison
Nothing Ever Hurt Like You - James Morrison
Like the idea? Reblog, as T3S - Friday (Top 3 Songs)
I don’t know how to write a letter properly...
3 tags
woman, in the next room
he said
the absense of faith invites temptation then, softly
puts down his bible and fidelity to
allow his hands to grasp —
a trembling woman, like his wife, who sits,
in the next room crying into
the scarf he wore the night they met.
new orleans chasing butterflies
here, a mouth opens, inserting a city and drowns the less faithful a year where the hips are the slopes of violins and the rivers of hair is felt like rain and naked skin recalls only the night of 1984 where the Creoles sigh wistfully and the musicians are dusty memories, waiting for Jesus to descend into their broken fingers and bring back their faith.
“I may not be chasing the sun,
but I’m chasing something.”
–
Adrieline Provana
my reflection, stayed behind →
soft shifts in the forest
The morning heartbeats always flutter,
as ships in the forest become bare
and the restless dead still mutter.
Where my dearest Robert still roams,
bright smiles no longer reach his eyes;
the empty side he used to lie,
cries, for him to come back home.
I am hollowed out, my confessions stutter
as I draw in, this retreating air,
and the night reaches deep into my hair
never...
Love according to children.
havent-got-a-prayer:
heartscontent:
Actual children’s answers to the question “what is love?”
“When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You just know that your name is safe in their mouth.” - Billy, age 4
“Love is when a girl puts on perfume and a boy puts on shaving cologne and they go out and smell each other.” - Karl, age 5
“Love is when you go out to eat and give...
2 tags
Suspension [chapter 1]
A man, shrugging loosely into his leather jacket and shaking his slicked back hair, pulls on his cigarette with an inherent desire. Pulls on it with the belief of turning back time, but lets the obsession with things broken and long faded go with her memory now, falling on the end of the smoke. He lets it fill his lungs, aware of the slow decomposition with each drag, then releases it. A...
dusty
You play the roof, weeping when brown dusty streets, from which we are created of the Earth’s clay. I hum as a sleep child, tender as the dust beneath your form.
๑
Yeah, another poem.
as resurrection parts, we do, sigh
¤
The dust settles in the crevices of the flesh, split
pink beauty sighs, on the morning rise
and only with the lengthy night can he and I admit
*
When we lie side by side as gossamer lovers,
you shift, in the resurrection of things,
while the whispering walls have no more words
and the slumbers part with the spring.
*
No more tenderness, God knows, here I admit,
...
Watch
Because sometimes, I do want to explode.
Dive Under You...
ஐ
Please, don’t call this love.
I think I still exist for you;
God knows, there is no more tenderness…
Maps --
Adrie: stuck in my head. why?
because they don’t love you like I love you. fuck. call me.
ஐ
Lizzy: fuck.me. skip the call. ;] i love that song. me and my brother used to sing it all the time and watch the video together. :] just thought i share.
ஐ
Adrie: yeah, i agree. give me a bullet and i’ll load the damn gun.
You Belong To Me....
…God, they don’t love you like I love you. You belong to me.
