mercifulserpent: (on fire within)
Out Here Even Crows Commit Suicide
--Colleen J. McElroy

In a world where all the heroes
are pilots with voices like God
he brought her a strand of some woman’s

hair to wear on her wing.
She looked sideways at the ground
silent behind the cloudy film covering

her eyes knowing she would be his
forever. They cruised the city nights
each one spiralling away from the other

but always coming home to gather stories.
Dark streets bright tavern lights drunks
filled with beer in the gutters.

The flicker of stars shaped like a hunter’s
arrow bent stars that twinkled like babies’
eyes. No babies for them. She was an outcast.

He a loner. A perfect pair.
Winters had made him wise
and he avoided the single nests of summer.

He told her about things she could see.
How the dismal cover of clouds roils and explodes
and the ground aches like an old woman’s knee.

How wood rots against the tide
good for hunting grub.
How to fade and fall back into the wind.

He translated her pulse
into near-language. Their poetry so personal
even Peterson’s Field Guide could not tap it.

Only a stray hunter saw it.
Shook his head once thinking it a trick
of wind and wing then turned his eyes north

to search for the simple flight
of Brant or Canadian. Those patterns
he could easily understand.

That last night they drank from the river.
Sucked its delicate cusps of mold
sang anti social songs as if they were humans.

When he flicked his handsome head
to catch the drift of wind
she even managed a single tear.

She waited through days and nights
of grief. Circled the city less
then settled on the wires.

The metallic conductor captured her eyes.
She remembered how he proudly sang her name
as he pranced from pole-top to KV line.

One last fluff of feathers. One sigh
for all the unnested summers.
One single scratch

one electrical surge of power of love.
Then she fell smiling.
A trick he had taught her.
mercifulserpent: (on fire within)
This Is the Part of the Story I'd Rather Not Tell - Emily Kagan Trenchard
how at 13 I would lay awake at night deciding
which friend or family member would have to die
so that I might be aggrieved enough to be interesting,
so that I would have the permission to become more
withdrawn and mysterious and thus, more attractive.
I’d lay awake at night, plotting who it should be, how
it should go for the maximum impact. It would have
to be something epic so that I could become a rag doll
in his arms, bury my sweet face in the meaty expanse
of his 13-year-old chest and breathe deep the scent of his
Old Spice for my consolation. My malaise would surely
cause me to lose my appetite, and thus the tragic death
of my loved one would conveniently double as a diet plan.
In the version of the story where a masked gunman
breaks into our school and holds us all hostage, I am
always able to tackle him after he gets off a few
shots. One of them hits me non-fatally in the shoulder
and my current infatuation takes off his shirt to help
staunch the bleeding. I’m not sure how the story proceeds
from there because at this point in my dream I always
began to masturbate. I had determined that certain aunts
and cousins were important, but ultimately non-essential
enough to my daily life to be suitable options. Certain friends
had also been earmarked as acceptable, and I would update
my list with god each evening, playing through the
circumstances of their death and grieving each one with
actual tears so god might see what good choices I had made.
I didn’t want him to think I had cheaped out and picked a
distant relative or a secret enemy to exchange for my love’s
fulfillment. What kind of love would that be, anyway?

When it finally happened, there was no one but the floor
to fall into. Nothing but the gasping choke for my consolation.
I wouldn’t let anyone touch me. The sacrificial loved one?
My best friend with the crooked smile and first kiss around
the corner, her mother who kissed my head like a daughter,
her father who would fetch me midnight bowls of cereal,
her sister, getting ready to start college. The epic disaster?
An exploding plane.
To whom much is given, much is expected.
I no longer speak to god.
I love like I’d kill for it.
mercifulserpent: (Default)
34 excuses for why we failed at love
Warsan Shire

1. I’m lonely so I do lonely things.

Read more... )
mercifulserpent: (Default)
"Not in the Headlines"
It's not the kind of thing that ought to happen; so
I'm not going to tell you about it. You wouldn't be
happy about the world, and you couldn't change anything
after all this time anyway. The girl herself moved
away, and the guys--Raymond, Oscar and Fred, all
friends of mine before it happened--they went on and
became a banker, a war hero, and a lawyer. You couldn't
tell them from other people just like them. That was the thing.

But what happened--not at the time, but after--
was that the girl's guardians didn't complain, and the girl,
being retarded a little and not knowing enough anyway,
she just went on, maybe even feeling OK, and possibly--
this is the awful part--maybe even liking it.

Where the guardians lived, and where it all happened,
was a big house on Main Street back in some trees.
I was there; so at night it comes back, the tree shadows,
the bright rooms and the party in the downstairs with
the foster parents gone and Fred turning up the Victrola.
They got around in a circle, sort of leaving me out as
usual, being a Momma's boy but partly tolerated and not
even knowing if I wanted to belong to the group, their
church, their neighborhood, their country club.

Later when people found out, the guys knew it must
have been me, the Momma's boy. Have you thought about
the role of being the one who holds back and then tells?
It all helped me know my place, a dissenter, a doubter
of all commitments to party, gang, nation, never a hero,
and then later on their war--not for me.

When I pass through that town these days, covering my
territory for whatever company it is at the time, I
read about Oscar and Fred and Raymond, their success
and their children, their wives. The girl, I don't know,
and where or anything. And why did I tell you even this
much? It won't as I say help you guide your actions
or become a banker or a war hero or a good citizen,
and it sure won't help you know how to like the world.
mercifulserpent: (Default)
Abandoned Farmhouse
by Ted Kooser

He was a big man, says the size of his shoes
on a pile of broken dishes by the house;
a tall man too, says the length of the bed
in an upstairs room; and a good, God-fearing man,
says the Bible with a broken back
on the floor below the window, dusty with sun;
but not a man for farming, say the fields
cluttered with boulders and the leaky barn.

A woman lived with him, says the bedroom wall
papered with lilacs and the kitchen shelves
covered with oilcloth, and they had a child,
says the sandbox made from a tractor tire.
Money was scarce, say the jars of plum preserves
and canned tomatoes sealed in the cellar hole.
And the winters cold, say the rags in the window frames.
It was lonely here, says the narrow country road.

Something went wrong, says the empty house
in the weed-choked yard. Stones in the fields
say he was not a farmer; the still-sealed jars
in the cellar say she left in a nervous haste.
And the child? Its toys are strewn in the yard
like branches after a storm--a rubber cow,
a rusty tractor with a broken plow,
a doll in overalls. Something went wrong, they say.
mercifulserpent: (Default)
The Dead | Susan Mitchell
At night the dead come down to the river to drink. 
They unburden themselves of their fears, 
their worries for us. They take out the old photographs. 
They pat the lines in our hands and tell our futures, 
which are cracked and yellow. 
Some dead find their way to our houses. 
They go up to the attics. 
They read the letters they sent us, insatiable 
for signs of their love. 
They tell each other stories. 
They make so much noise 
they wake us 
as they did when we were children and they stayed up 
drinking all night in the kitchen.
mercifulserpent: (Default)
Who owns these scrawny little feet?   Death.
Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face?   Death.
Who owns these still-working lungs?   Death.
Who owns this utility coat of muscles?   Death.
Who owns these unspeakable guts?   Death.
Who owns these questionable brains?   Death.
All this messy blood?   Death.
These minimum-efficiency eyes?   Death.
This wicked little tongue?   Death.
This occasional wakefulness?   Death.

Given, stolen, or held pending trial?

Who owns the whole rainy, stony earth?   Death.
Who owns all of space?   Death.

Who is stronger than hope?   Death.
Who is stronger than the will?   Death.
Stronger than love?   Death.
Stronger than life?   Death.

But who is stronger than death?
    Me, evidently.

Pass, Crow.

mercifulserpent: (Default)
Bold the ones you have and use at least once a year, italicize the ones you have and don’t use, strike through the ones you have had but got rid of.

I wonder how many pasta machines, breadmakers, juicers, blenders, deep fat fryers, egg boilers, melon ballers, sandwich makers, pastry brushes, cheese knives, electric woks, miniature salad spinners, griddle pans, jam funnels, meat thermometers, filleting knives, egg poachers, cake stands, garlic presses, margarita glassestea strainers, bamboo steamers, pizza stones, coffee grinders, milk frothers, piping bags, banana stands, fluted pastry wheels, tagine dishes, conical strainers, rice cookers, steam cookers, pressure cookers, slow cookers, spaetzle makers, cookie presses, gravy strainers, double boilers (bains marie), sukiyaki stoves, food processors, ice cream makers, takoyaki makers, and fondue sets languish dustily at the back of the nation’s cupboards.

...i like gadgets. and accessorizing for hobbies. 
mercifulserpent: (Default)
Evolution in Nine Parts

My earliest memories of my mother
are sunburned. Pink cheeks.
Braids. Dirt under fingernails.


Before me, she was already self-conscious
about her stomach. Then I was made and I was too stubborn
to turn upside down inside her and they had to
cut her open and pull me out.

I learned how to put on lipstick
by watching her get ready for work
in the morning. 

I learned how to criticize myself
by watching her cluck at the mirror,
swatting her hair down like a bad dog.


I am sorry for the white worm
I left across your middle.


She believes my sisters and I chose her 
to be our mother. Handpicked her 
from a basket of others.

This one. This one will teach us the most.


Learn to cherish this vessel,
the tired music of the body.

Let the skin be witness. 
To grow. To grow.


I am standing in front of a mirror.
I am insulting myself out of habit 
and suddenly my mother stops me, 
“don’t say that, Sierra. If you think you are ugly, 
you are creating that ugliness inside you.”


I am thankful for the bed in your belly.
I was a weary traveler. 


My mother has a birthmark 
the size of a grapefruit on her hip. 
It is red and exploding.

I can only imagine 
when she undressed for my father 
the first time, it was like
watching the sun come up.

Sierra DeMulder


Sep. 12th, 2012 04:40 pm
mercifulserpent: (Default)



Dilapidated conditions magnified sickness, and typhoid, dropsy, and tuberculosis ravaged the institution and resulted in a number of inmates' deaths... Laura Williams, a black woman in her early twenties convicted in 1887, died of tuberculosis one month before her sentence ended.  

 --Kali N. Gross, Colored Amazons

I dream of hounds. Their teeth loose in my veins.

Their howls consume me. They growl and feast.

She whispers not to run. I can't refrain.

Nightmares of this cell stirring in my brain.

To survive I would suckle possums' teats.

I dream of hounds. Their teeth loose in my veins.

Sweat pours from my body. It's heavy rain.

My intestine rotting, rising, my tongue reeks.

She whispers not to run. I can't refrain.

Tuberculosis fevers stew my pain.

Curdle my stomach's bile. Vomit creeps.

I dream of hounds. Their teeth loose in my veins

Awake to my own barking. My voice strained.

The nurse's compress grips me like a leash.

She whispers not to run. I can't refrain.

She tells me to hush as I try to explain.

The stale air in this jail folds in, death's crease.

I dream of hounds. Their teeth loose in my veins.

She whispers do not run. I can't refrain.

-DaMaris B. Hill  


Used by permission.


Originally published in Reverie: Midwest African American Literature. Ed. Randal Horton. (2010). 5 September 2010. Print. (previously entitled Laura Dreams of Escape)

DaMaris B. Hill has a terminal degree in English-Creative Writing and Women, Gender, and Sexuality Studies at the University of Kansas.The majority of her poetry stresses connections. Her series of poems entitledboundlibertybelles are influenced by the research of Kali N. Gross in Colored Amazons: Crime, Violence, and Black Women in the City of Brotherly Love, 1880-1910. She is currently writing a novel about two parents' struggle to control their daughter's sexuality during the 1930s.  

Please feel free to forward Split This Rock Poem of the Weekwidely. We just ask you to include all of the information in this email, including this request. Thanks!

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My Sister, Who Died Young, Takes Up The Task
by Jon Pineda

A basket of apples brown in our kitchen,
their warm scent is the scent of ripening,

and my sister, entering the room quietly,
takes a seat at the table, takes up the task

of peeling slowly away the blemished skins,
even half-rotten ones are salvaged carefully.

She makes sure to carve out the mealy flesh.
For this, I am grateful. I explain, this elegy

would love to save everything
. She smiles at me,
and before long, the empty bowl she uses fills,

domed with thin slices she brushes into
the mouth of a steaming pot on the stove.

What can I do? I ask finally. Nothing,
she says, let me finish this one thing alone.
mercifulserpent: (Default)
"The Animal That Drank up Sound"
by William Stafford

One day across the lake where echoes come now
an animal that needed sound came down. He gazed
enormously, and instead of making any, he took
away from, sound: the lake and all the land
went dumb. A fish that jumped went back like a knife,
and the water died. In all the wilderness around he
drained the rustle from the leaves into the mountainside
and folded a quilt over the rocks, getting ready
to store everything the place had known; he buried--
thousands of autumns deep--the noise that used to come there.

Then that animal wandered on and began to drink
the sound out of all the valleys--the croak of toads,
and all the little shiny noise grass blades make.
He drank till winter, and then looked out one night
at the stilled places guaranteed around by frozen
peaks and held in the shallow pools of starlight.
It was finally tall and still, and he stopped on the highest
ridge, just where the cold sky fell away
like a perpetual curve, and from there he walked on silently,
and began to starve.

When the moon drifted over the night the whole world lay
just like the moon, shining back that still
silver, and the moon saw its own animal dead
on the snow, its dark absorbing paws and quiet
muzzle, and thick, velvet, deep fur.

After the animal that drank sound died, the world
lay still and cold for months, and the moon yearned
and explored, letting its dead light float down
the west walls of canyons and then climb its delighted
soundless way up the east side. The moon
owned the earth its animal had faithfully explored.
The sun disregarded the life it used to warm.

But on the north side of a mountain, deep in some rocks,
a cricket slept. It had been hiding when that animal
passed, and as spring came again this cricket waited,
afraid to crawl out into the heavy stillness.
Think how deep the cricket felt, lost there
in such a silence--the grass, the leaves, the water,
the stilled animals all depending on such a little
thing. But softly it tried--"Cricket!"--and back like a river
from that one act flowed the kind of world we know,
first whisperings, then moves in the grass and leaves;
the water splashed, and a big night bird screamed.

It all returned, our precious world with its life and sound,
where sometimes loud over the hill the moon,
wild again, looks for its animal to roam, still,
down out of the hills, any time.
But somewhere a cricket waits.

It listens now, and practices at night.
mercifulserpent: (Default)
The book of my enemy has been remaindered

And I am pleased.

In vast quantities it has been remaindered

Like a van-load of counterfeit that has been seized

And sits in piles in a police warehouse,

My enemy's much-prized effort sits in piles

In the kind of bookshop where remaindering occurs.

Great, square stacks of rejected books and, between them, aisles

One passes down reflecting on life's vanities,

Pausing to remember all those thoughtful reviews

Lavished to no avail upon one's enemy's book –

For behold, here is that book

Among these ranks and banks of duds,

These ponderous and seeminly irreducible cairns

Of complete stiffs.  

The book of my enemy has been remaindered

And I rejoice.

It has gone with bowed head like a defeated legion

Beneath the yoke.

What avail him now his awards and prizes,

The praise expended upon his meticulous technique,

His individual new voice?

Knocked into the middle of next week

His brainchild now consorts with the bad buys

The sinker, clinkers, dogs and dregs,

The Edsels of the world of moveable type,

The bummers that no amount of hype could shift,

The unbudgeable turkeys.  

Yea, his slim volume with its understated wrapper

Bathes in the blare of the brightly jacketed Hitler's War Machine,

His unmistakably individual new voice

Shares the same scrapyart with a forlorn skyscraper 

Of The Kung-Fu Cookbook,

His honesty, proclaimed by himself and believed by others,

His renowned abhorrence of all posturing and pretense,

Is there with Pertwee's Promenades and Pierrots—

One Hundred Years of Seaside Entertainment,

And (oh, this above all) his sensibility,

His sensibility and its hair-like filaments,

His delicate, quivering sensibility is now as one

With Barbara Windsor's Book of Boobs,

A volume graced by the descriptive rubric

"My boobs will give everyone hours of fun".  

Soon now a book of mine could be remaindered also,

Though not to the monumental extent

In which the chastisement of remaindering has been meted out

To the book of my enemy,

Since in the case of my own book it will be due

To a miscalculated print run, a marketing error—

Nothing to do with merit.

But just supposing that such an event should hold

Some slight element of sadness, it will be offset

By the memory of this sweet moment.

Chill the champagne and polish the crystal goblets! 

The book of my enemy has been remaindered

And I am glad.  

Clive James

mercifulserpent: (Default)
Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal
Naomi Shihab Nye

After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.

Well — one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
Did this.

I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?

The minute she heard any words she knew — however poorly used -
She stopped crying.

She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,

Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her — southwest.

She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.

Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.

Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering

She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies — little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts — out of her bag —
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.

To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo — we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.

And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers —
Non-alcoholic — and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American — ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.

And I noticed my new best friend — by now we were holding hands —
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,

With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.

Not a single person in this gate — once the crying of confusion stopped
— has seemed apprehensive about any other person.

They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.

Not everything is lost.
mercifulserpent: (Default)

Fences | Benjamin Alire Saenz

                     I was six.
The fence was high     and as I leapt
the barbs                  wrote perfect lines
straight across           my chest.
My skin ripped easy     as a rag.

                     I dangled there
My blood                   was thick and red.

   That was when
   I first began
   to know the price
   of jumping
   over fences.


In love with women
and men, he says they're both
the same: "I could close
my eyes and groan and groan
all night. Hands are hands.
And when they knead
my body like bread
I rise to meet the touch."


Sad and old, she opened her house
to elders knocking at her door.
They promised to visit her
daily. She agreed to join
their church. She was asked
to rid herself of statues
saved on alters in her room.
She told them she was ready
to renounce. Next day, when they
returned, she told them how she'd
thrown her statues out: "I beat
them into nothing." Each day
when the elders left her home,
she took her statues from a closet
and raised them back to life.


A drink in hand, she talks:
"When I have sex
my mind dissolves.
In the everything of touch,
the nothingness of language
disappears. When thought
returns, I am left with sadness
and with words. I want to live
on the silent side of speech."


I stood before
the Torah. I searched
for Yahweh's name whose face
cannot be seen, whose name
cannot be said.
When I found
letters that stood 
for his name, I touched them
trembling. Lines on fragile
parchment: what about them
takes us close to God?


I write in English, dream
in Spanish, listen to Latin chants.
I like streets where
Chicanos make up words.
Sometimes, I shout
Italian words to wake
the morning light.
At dusk, I breathe out
fragments of Swahili.
I want to feel words
swimming in my throat
like fighting fish
that refuse to be hooked
on a line.
mercifulserpent: (Default)
Apartment 2B

I think my neighbor is dead, or maybe I don’t know
what to do with a neighbor so quiet compared
to the ones that came before her, like that couple
who found a reason to fight every day, and I laughed the day
I heard the man cry out about the black eye his girlfriend gave him,
and when I saw him the next day down in the basement
doing laundry I wanted to ask: hey man,
what happened to your face?
 but instead I said:
I think you dropped a sock.
                                                     I didn’t have the heart, if that’s what
you want to call it, to point out the thing I already knew, but it doesn’t matter,
they moved a few weeks later, replaced by the lesbian couple
who did nothing but vacuum and have sex, so whenever I sat
in my living room to eat a bagel or read the review of a movie
I’ll probably never see, I had to listen to the whir of their Hoover
or the way they moaned their affirmations to one another.
                                                     Those were the times I listened closest
except when my girlfriend came into the room and wanted to know
why I was so concerned about the wall and I would tell her
Something violent happened, but don’t worry, it’s all over now
but she knows me, and what I do late at night when she sleeps
You were listening to the lesbians again, which is the reason why
I had a sheepish grin on my face most of the time until they packed up,
box spring and all, which brings me back to the old woman,
who is sweet the few times I talked to her and shares my taste in sitcoms
from what I hear, although I don’t want to imagine her
having sex with anyone, because she reminds me
of my grandmother, well, before my grandmother
lost her eyesight, and talked about chickens all the time.
                                                     I attended her funeral but didn’t cry
because, by then, she was more of an idea than a woman tethered to my life,
and anyway,
this isn’t about my grandmother, but the old woman
of whose death I’m almost certain, and the sudden concern
I have for her, and whether or not I’ll smell her dying.

mercifulserpent: (Default)
The Letter | Linda Gregg
I’m not feeling strong yet, but I am taking
good care of myself. The weather is perfect.
I read and walk all day and then walk to the sea.
I expect to swim soon. For now I am content.
I am not sure what I hope for. I feel I am
doing my best. It reminds me of when I was
sixteen dreaming of Lorca, the gentle trees outside
and the creek. Perhaps poetry replaces something
in me that others receive more naturally.
Perhaps my happiness proves a weakness in my life.
Even my failures in poetry please me.
Time is very different here. It is very good
to be away from public ambition.
I sweep and wash, cook and shop.
Sometimes I go into town in the evening
and have pastry with custard. Sometimes I sit
at a table by the harbor and drink half a beer.
mercifulserpent: (on fire within)
Dylan Ravenfox

An old girlfriend would always write on my skin,
in blue or black ink. We both knew she was destined
to be a tattoo artist, though she never would admit it.
Little yin-yangs, tulips, messages like why
are you so nervous, or decisive, or spontaneous.
I let her write a poem down my spine
with a sharp black ball point,
and never found out what it said. It used to tickle
so much that she would get mad at me
for ruining the shapes. I got used to it though,
when the skin art became our ritual of afterplay,
and we kept a pen on the table beside the bed.
When she drew a stick figure angel
in between two little clouds on my thigh,
I took the pen from her and scribbled
“Don’t fake orgasms”
on her rib cage.
Eventually we broke up
because the ink was soaking in and poisoning
the whims, revealing that we didn’t really love
each other. Years later I walked into her tattoo
parlor, on a side street in Chicago.
She smiled to see that I had tracked her down,
but put a finger to my lips. She sat me down
without a word and began stabbing my forearm
with her little machine. When she was done
there was an intricate human heart, that
you could almost see beating,
colorless and real. It hurt more than I’d expected.
“Don’t worry about the girls,” she said,
“Anyone who can’t understand that
doesn’t deserve you.”
mercifulserpent: (Default)
I am asking you to come back home
before you lose the chance of seein’ me alive.
You already missed your daddy.
You missed you uncle Howard.
You missed Luciel.
I kept them and I buried them.
You showed up for the funerals.
Funerals are the easy part.

You even missed that dog you left.
I dug him a hole and put him in it.
It was a Sunday morning, but dead animals
don’t wait no better than dead people.

My mamma used to say she could feel herself
runnin’ short of the breath of life. So can I.
And I am blessed tired of buryin’ things I love.
Somebody else can do that job to me.
You’ll be back here then; you come for funerals.

I’d rather you come back now and got my stories.
I’ve got whole lives of stories that belong to to you.
I could fill you up with stories,
stories I ain’t told nobody yet,
stories with your name, your blood in them.
Ain’t nobody gonna hear them if you don’t
and you ain’t gonna hear them unless you get back home.

When I am dead, it will not matter
how hard you press your ear to the ground.
mercifulserpent: (Default)
Susanna and the Elders

"Why do
You thus devise
Evil against her?" "For that
She is beautiful, delicate;

by Adelaide Crapsey


mercifulserpent: (Default)

November 2014

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