TheNarwhalQueen

Tonight I sing a paean to you, the good martyr forgotten child of the street hero righteous coward Whatever the case, you were the victim The minutes of your life sprinted by in cold impatience like blackbirds in flight Blood rushing in cataracts through your veins; assassin velocity To whom did you speak? From what corner did you buy your daily bread and what secret wishes did you silently profess to the cracking of its crust? None of it matters! It was all a prelude Your life was a throbbing oboe before the screeching strings and omnipresent booming horns of your death When you died you suffered Muscles sobbing Skin taunt and

She has faux red hair I can see the mud brown roots A fur lined grime lined coat The surreal turquoise of her too short top Reminds me of precious Navajo stones She's too skinny Plateau of a stomach, Stick arms with barely a crest If she turned to the side There'd be nothing at all ~ On her right shoulder blade There is an angry scar From when she and her sister had that fight Violence was an eager thing in their house growing up Anger fizzling up beneath the surface of her skin An ubiquitous layer of odium between skin and muscle For her family, fighting was nothing personal Just a temporary catholicon for the itch At first

Undulant waves of sorrow wash over her drawn face Crouching on the cool gray ground The foundling imagines an egress into the hoary land from the tales of her grandmother Where clever ravens would lead her to Sedna, the mother of the sea On her loving back, she would ride on a seal skin kayak Under a wide expanse of northern sky, She would feel the true weight of her anirniit, her spirit Now, she imagines her soul, once as plenary as the full moon, broken into icy, jagged crescents She glances at the book in her hands, the text a familiar road Once traveled Many times retraced. Desolate for what was never hers, she rises Out th

The trenchant smell of buttered popcorn wafts languidly through the warm, dim auditorium, the familiar place which in these conditions is agnate to the womb The restless crowd shifts their legs, rustles their programs and destroys their soda straws by chewing on them. In an asudden moment, the room is enveloped in velvety darkness, and the redolent popcorn is smothered by hushed anticipation. ~ She licks the ice cream uncertainly. The other clientele chat while perched on cheerful red seats. There is something wrong with it. The swirl in itself is perfect, a spiraling pyramid, the Giza of desserts. The taste is also sublime, cold, sweet a

ÉG saga a fugl einn tími í a fjall forstofa it's skap barmafullur the matarbúr það var þakinn í borgar- rotna skítur af bláfátækt guðlast frá a maður of unglegur a líf bera saman til óákveðinn greinir í ensku maur the yfirgefinn af a maður of gamall fyrir reiði , en of rokgjarn fyrir uppgjöf the forgotten hús the mjölvi hálsbindi , fullkominn svipa fyrir a hausfraus maður the anga félagi með hjól the búr var málmgrindur á fullveldi svo ÉG kýla í gegnum það the athöfn var þægilegur , fyrir það var rotinn með borgar- rotnun og ÉG hávaði the fugl bak til the tignarlegur af náttúran einræði Fyrir það er náttúrulegur þessi maður er the veikja af h

él fue a el bosque de nube encima de las montañas altas montañas claro, agudo, alto endentaron con el cielo él habló con una brisa del norte dijo la brisa, "busque el viejo secreto ultimo en el bosque de nube" él buscó, pero no lo encontró "el secreto es pierde" él gritó repentinamente, él vio un nube en los árboles el nube evaporado "qué si todo es como eso?" él se preguntaba. "qué si todo es un sueño efímero?" ~ He went to the cloud forest Up the high mountains Clear, sharp, tall mountains Meshing with the sky He spoke with a breeze from the north The breeze said, "Look for the last old secret in the cloud forest." He lo

The grass grows up The grass grows down While the bird is flying Grape juice in a cup for me A clap of thunder makes me sneeze

Tell me What runs faster than stream? What adorns the apex of a dream? What length could outlast the years of isolation? The heart so desiccated in its starvation? For what are there no dilettantes? For what are there no abecedarians, and yet no savants? Tell me tell me tell me true Though the answer is nothing new For in the deepest well In the small pocket of darkness between the embrace If one were to stretch the cosmos what would remain? So ambrosial, and yet so familiar What visceral reaction do we mistake as disgust? Or is it fear? It is the blood What relieves my soul's banes What runs through my veins And yours

The sadistic painter Or the blind muse Deciding once to cover all in deepest quiet So penetrating that none could see In coldness none could love Or so cordial that none could hate And so, for each to be appeased The tears of the world evaporated into spheres Of highly condensed intimacy And as such was the night This is what I think as I see The hitchhiking seraph down the road Metamorphoses into the urine soaked gas station from hell And the Lady dances in purple dusk This is what I think when the first snow comes And the sky seems to be a valley Filled with aching longing Whose childlike hand comes curls itself around the