My eyes are knives

they hit my lungs and puncture

I am balloon splinters:

Rotate, turn, and break.

I am film covered and bubbling

don't you see?

We smile through the churning

the clattering spines

We line up and bellow

one
by
one

Hair flipped examinations

yellow pearly daggers

popping holes inside my mind.

(Hello my fellow writers :) Just a reminder to any new followers that if you would like to become an author you can post your email in a comment or send it to me at sernityr101@sbcglobal.net and I'll add you ASAP. Also, I was wondering if anyone would like to start doing something new like posting writing prompts and seeing what we can come up with. It's fantastic excersise and I haven't thought through how we would do it, but I was wondering if anyone would be interested in that? Let me know!

Love you all,

Ever

Black Wedding

Drowning. In layers of me.
In folds, and crinkles, and pores, and holes, and wrinkly-dots, of me.
In heaviness, and weightiness, and spacey-ness, and in square-meters, of me.
In fucking pools of black poison, inky, staining, poisonous, pools, of me.

Stains.
I'm a stain.
I'm a fucking blackberry stain, bitter-sweet and toxic-touch on your lips; lingering there for half a second too long; just half a second.
And then it's too late.
I'm within you, part of you; spreading through the cracks in your lips, the holes in your pores, the veins in your heart.
Pumping through your coronaries and pumping through your pulse.

Toxins, bursting into the air; an invisible, slippery, slimey, clear-black, toxin.

And I live in you.



Kill me;
it's the only way out.

In Broken Images.

He is quick, thinking in clear images;
I am slow, thinking in broken images.

He becomes dull, trusting to his clear images;
I become sharp, mistrusting my broken images,
 
Trusting his images, he assumes their relevance;
Mistrusting my images, I question their relevance.
 
Assuming their relevance, he assumes the fact,
Questioning their relevance, I question the fact.
 
When the fact fails him, he questions his senses;
When the fact fails me, I approve my senses.
 
He continues quick and dull in his clear images;
I continue slow and sharp in my broken images.
 
He in a new confusion of his understanding;
I in a new understanding of my confusion.

Robert Graves

Annabel Lee

by Edgar Allen Poe
(because this would not be a blog if it didn't have a little Poe :) )

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Christina's World

I love art. More specifically, I love paintings.
I especially love those painters who mainly use people as their subjects. Because it is so interesting to imagine the untold stories that hide within the colours and brush strokes.

One of my favourite paintings is "Christina's World" by Andrew Wyeth.


The first time I saw this picture I was absolutely intrigued by it. Something about it really struck me; I just wanted to stare at it and wonder.... What did it mean? Why is that Christina's world?
I later found out it was inspired by his neighbour who had polio. (Read more here.)
I almost wish I hadn't found that out. But I don't really regret knowing the truth. Because for me speculation is never as satisfying as fact. But still, there is something about not knowing... and being able to give your own meaning to paintings or poems.

Do you prefer to know the meaning behind things or are you content to see in them what you will?

Full Moon

By Elinor Wylie

My bands of silk and miniver

Momently grew heavier;

The black gauze was beggarly thin;

The ermine muffled mouth and chin;

I could not suck the moonlight in.

Harlequin in lozenges

Of love and hate, I walked in these

Striped and ragged rigmaroles;

Along the pavement my footsoles

Trod warily on living coals.

Shouldering the thoughts I loathed,

In their corrupt disguises clothed,

Morality I could not tear

From my ribs, to leave them bare

Ivory in silver air.

There I walked, and there I raged;

The spiritual savage caged

Within my skeleton, raged afresh

To feel, behind a carnal mesh,

The clean bones crying in the flesh.

 

(A lovely little poem I found at poetryoutloud.org. I had never heard of her before but she is such a wonderful writer! xxx)

Invaded

This, my dears, is why a blog is not supposed to be a part of a relationship. My just now ex was trying to communicate through my blogs. I have changed both of the url's which will hopefully keep him away and all of you here. I am terribly sorry for the inconvenience. I have gotten so accostumed to my urls that it is almost sad to part with them. I hope this doesn't cause any problems for any of you.
Wish you well
xxx