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Returning To NewcastleFar-shadowed: blinking from their broken lids, They’re crawling to the surface of the Tyne; And I would rather bow my head, avoiding Calling out to which is mine. And crossing over streets, and broken ends Of cigarettes and second-hand degrees; You feel it in the shouldering and jostling Of the people, terrified to freeze. And maybe you’ll return to places fireworks Ascended from and proudly made their marks Like waxy welts, like women in black veiling Silent in their protest: silent sparks; Yet maybe, you will walk along the concrete Where the best of wishes hauntReturning To Newcastle
by ~whocouldsay
Childhood TastesMy tastes are spine-glittered, live only on the Broken backs of turtle memories: Buttered brown bread without butter packaged cakes plastic sheets of paper for projectors roller-skating. Soft and cascading, The fluid of nerves, Ruffling the feathers of seagulls. If I could hold a tiny globe in tiny hands, in huge rafter basket houses once again; Could feel the weight of future promises pressing, Pressing, down upon the future (of promises) - the pivotal bones and superseding all the fading comforts, Shattered haunts of bread and butter climbiChildhood Tastes
by ~whocouldsay
ConceptAcross the distant wall,Concept
You cast your shadow: Dainty, half-translucent being, Scooping away at the edges of the room; Your heartless shadow. And as the soft, pathetic warmth gathers its fire In eyes of adoring fans, in conversation-- Your gentle, knowing smile and Softened feet, effeminate in white and curdled Into shoes made for unattainable perfections: The skulking outlines of your shadow Bring a crass but truthful air To all this high talk of conditioning.
There will be ounces, half-boiled pounds of time and hours again To set out on your predeter
by ~whocouldsay
Staying MoralI pulled away. There’s not much to be said for forms in Low-backed red dresses, descending down Imaginary stairs, their crowns balanced delicately In the golden air. They move without a care And yet, they only exist within the realmsStaying Moral
Of stalagmites and everything that squeezes Navy juices of melancholy, bite-sized grins, Commercial deals, your last penny, octaves sung In rape-infested fields, spilling fruitful seeds in Metal alleyways. The limbo: it goes; it stays; Its very constructs caving in upon itself in Various shades of key-chain smoke, shelved A
by ~whocouldsay
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