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emmyemmy0 commentsexperimental, poetry, the truth, visual

isabel…

after the movies, but before the train station,
we hugged goodbye. i said, see you, like i always do;
unthinking, she hummed i love you,
then gasped. the perfect casual accident.

we parted ways in blushing silence,
my shock too thick to shake. though
across percussive tracks, an engine chanted
what i couldn’t…

you too you too you too
all the way home, you too, you too.

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emmyemmy0 commentsexperimental, poetry, the suite, visual

on the pulse of the earth

there is a faultline that runs from you to me. i’ve taken it upon myself to be a detective, an exploring nuisance, my index finger dragging through the darkness of the earth to map out a path to you. if you’ve ever listened to the mid-morning birds you know what i mean. i’d dedicate my life to wandering if i could, make sure all roads led to you. one foot is one step & i’m trading secrets with other travellers, hoping wisdom can be transferred in a handshake or whisper.

there is an intense desire that forces in me a type of unwinding; your wonderful laughing & musical eyes inspire cliche. calling out cliche doesn’t excuse it, but there’s something about being disgustingly in love that seems to turn the whole world forgivable. when i’m not trawling through sugar-coarse soil, i spend obscene amounts of time with one hand over my stomach, one hand over my chest, trying desperately to separate or soothe the vibrations that threaten to turn me completely electric. you could use me to power your computer, your little singing toothbrush, your stack of unopened mail. if there’s one justice in my life it might involve turning my useless fingers into something productive.

if your body is a vessel i’m amorphous, a formless sludge around your contained-ness. nothing is as pathetic or trying as someone attempting to do a completed action. have you ever thought about the space between the page & the poem ? most nights, i dream of being that impossible, & that lovely.

emmyemmy0 commentsdiaries, experimental, stream of consciousness, writing exercises

24/06/2019 pretending to meditate

pretending to meditate is still meditation. pretending pretending to stream of thought consciousness is a way to write write write write write write wrong write write write write writer as faithfully as possible the human mind condition the actuality of writing under a creak in the door pausing still and silent pretending to meditate is still meditating meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation is still meditation meditation meditation meditation on the word is meditate on the word is meditation is meditation on the word is meditation on the why the word the word is on the word is on the word is on the word is on the reminded of the word of the meditation   

            of the word meditation faking meditation is still pretending to actually meditate the meditation in the faking is still trying to be meditation the mediate the meditation the why the word is meditation to meditation meditation meditation meditation making meditation making meditation the why the meditation the how the meditation the meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation sore the meditation slower meditation harder to see meditation meditation meditation meditate on meditation fill one hundred meditations on meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation meditation is still meditation is still meditation

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emmyemmy0 commentsexperimental, poetry, visual

sugarcane | a cento

The first time someone called me “sweetheart”,
I sold my library, my piano. I boarded a train
tremulously in the direction of the beach.
I had the transport all to myself.

Lovely enchanting language, sugar-cane,
if you eat too much of it, you want more—
one part surge, another spray. One part the urging
you know by name.

Into this noise sailed
caged birds that sing, birds that talk—
and say that a poet wakes up one morning
for a single, beautiful word.

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emmyemmy0 commentsexperimental, poetry

unrequited

i (understand that which you try to obscure) wish (for everything, but mostly your (fool that i was to underestimate) dilation) i (love the silhouette (you sink me in) more than i can (if you let me) say) was enough (of the pity, the (sweetness of your arcane transgressions) recovery) for (the dimensions of desire you’ve solely (& no doubt languished over) trapped me in) you

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emmyemmy0 commentsexperimental, poetry

alphabet sonnet

AFFAIR ADORED ADVICE ASLEEP ALONE
BEGAN BENEATH BIZZARRE BUFFET BOUQUET
CAFFEINE CREATES CONFUSED CONCISE COLOGNE
DEFACED DEFEAT DENOUNCED DEFAULT DECAY

ENOUGH ESCAPE EXCUSE EVENT EMBAYED
FATIGUE FORGIVE FORBID FONDUE FORTELL
GROTESQUE GALORE GENTEEL GAMETE GRENADE
HEREBY HARASS HIMSELF HARPOON HOTEL

INSPECT INSIDE IMBIBE INGORE INTO
JEROME JUSTINE JIANG JOQUAIN JAMAL
KORAN KIBBUTZ KUWAIT KEBAB KAZOO
LIQUEUER LAPEL LAMENT LAGOON LOCALE

MASSAGE MYSELF MATURE MALAISE MILITE
NEGATE NEGLECT NONPLUSSED NONSTICK NONWHITE

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emmyemmy0 commentsexperimental, poetry

a list of names to call your lover

1. darling peaches
2. your 2D shadow
3. midnight poem
4. a consequence of art
5. the law of increasing returns
6. Heaven’s apology
7. PIP (person in proximity)
8. lemon wedge
9. the culprit
10. part of your equation
11. your beautiful prime number
12. [lovingly redacted]
13. dreamlike representation
14. villain purple
15. the unmistakable truth
16. intoxication / soft incarnate
17. the word on the mouth of the universe

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emmyemmy0 commentsexperimental, poetry

in an hour

in an hour i can make it happen four or five times. maybe six—i’m overzealous. got nothin’ better to do in the hot cold night; nothing more singular than reaching, eyes shut, screwed shut. i’d like to think that some words, like some numbers, are more greedy than others—definitely more tempted; overwhelmed & desirous. tell me not to escalate & i will honour that, only for as long as i can hold before dissolving, never to be seen again for the next two or five minutes. an hour is a lot of time to make a thing happen, i’ve got time for an hour if it involves making lewd decisions. no other path could be as frightful or delirious, unweaving slick from tyrant digits—no more i’m absolutely stuffed i’m sure i’m mumbling as faithlessly as possible half-hoping to believe myself. an hour can be ravenous, borderline savage or vital-quiet in execution. do you glut yourself over & over, do you turn into a pulpy mess ? a justified question from no voice in particular & it is exactly knowing, only speaks for the pleasure of igniting something no less temperate than the goddamn world on fire.

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