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Ocean's SongForgive my weakness, woman, and my albatross-hands that roam from island to island, in search of rest.Ocean's Song
Forgive me also for my fish-school eyes, they dart from side to side in search of something that glitters - prey or the great white Kraken, or both: "I have wrecked too many ships, and seen them scream, I have held them like a lover; come, my children," it tempts, and lies softly at the bottom of the sea, singing.
Forgive my oceanic absence, and the lapping and the lapses of my tongue; it writhes in my mouth like the Kraken - a treacherous, twis
by ~rober2
TranslationChain Poem 1HomesickTranslationChain Poem 1
"Do not cry in front of them," my mother said. "It worries me." While I walk away and wipe the tear clean, my legs act stupid, my legs, glowing like the surface of the stones. From my empty hands the teacher takes the cadle, and the other children laugh.
Behind the arms of the stars they play in the garden, sunny and warm. But I stay here, as my mother told me. Beneath the window swim the fishes, behind glass, back and forth. They merely follow their own story.
I feel the water with a finger. Now a finger more. T
by ~rober2
The dying of the fairies.We have been dying for some time. Some say it is the children, that they do not believe. They say they have forgotten childhood, that they have forgotten how to play in the streets with scrapes on their knees, like we did and do, still. Others blame the clouds of poison that roll across the earth, carried by dark winds across the country. Some blame the metal of the modern world, the iron that is everywhere you turn these days. There is even iron in the air, and we breathe death with each lungful of it. The flying ones among us say the skies are turning gray. They say they can see flames and blue sparks everywhere they go.The dying of the fairies.
The tr
by ~rober2
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love poem.she is sick into a poem, she on desert elbows, the tracks of her bones swearing gashes in wool blanketslove poem.
she bruises fingers on string butterflies, fashions mirrors of their twisted wire torsos
she is streets, foggy or hell-sacred and almost ready to be left, she some butchered queen
she is a sometimes mechanism,
she an eight-minute record, excessive and muddy with feelings
she violates the chrysalis,
she a cream-skinned queen yet child, she waits and waits.
by ~iLISI
Buggedby `girltripped
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