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I don't even know how I managed to do this today, but I DID IT.


When I was sixteen, I promised
never to feel so much again,
I promised never to depend
on someone else for happiness,
and I rewrote that promise as
a warning: run from everyone
who makes you laugh. I promised
to fly below the sun, never to melt –
as sixteen-sugar children often do –
to keep my hands unburnt
and never play with danger.
I swore I wouldn’t be sixteen
in anything but name, in other words,
the kind of promise that snaps
in its construction, that melts
with the heat to weld it. I swore
to a girl who wouldn’t last much longer,
mirror-girl with steely fingers
fisted around promises and anger,
and she learned that rigid steel is brittle,
that it snaps – easy, sharp, fast.
And what melts metal back together?
Fire. So I carried pieces towards the sun
and as it burnt me whole, discovered laughter.
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Poetry update! Sunday night turned into another get-out-of-bed-to-write-the-day's-poem thing. Sadly that poem, possibly due to the hour, ended up having key bits of personal information worked rather intrinsically into it, so I'm not posting it. Last night's absence of poetry posts was because my computer (specifically, in this case, my Internet connection) hates my guts. So, here is Monday's.

The Unavoidable

Here’s to the westbound plane
I hope you keep the window closed until you’re gone
and may the clouds glow glorious in brilliance
(like yours) and outshine everything behind.

Years ago, we promised love wasn’t worth our dreams
alive in fiery self-ignorance, sacrificing unmet princes
for our own greater passions, and indeed
college love, first love, is far less than everything.

I’ll watch you rise – above cameras, above the airfield –
from a distance; barriers of modern safety will prevent
the melodramatic goodbyes and pining gaze
and anyway, I’m climbing my hill steady too.

This is a necessary thing; everyone loses someone
along the way, and we were never young enough
to imagine that we would be exceptions – but
unvarnished, immature, undignified, here is the truth.

By God in his heaven and fucking hell
my love, I’m going to miss you.

And have today's!

To The Nameless

Here's to the girl in the tower,
on the rock, before the knife,
glazed and glossy in the helmet,
beatific in the salt-soaked grave.

The hero's hope,
The hero's treasure,
The hero's light,
The hero's lover.

The hero's redemption,
The hero's reward,
The hero's healing,
The hero's shelter.

The hero's guilt,
The hero's tragedy,
The hero's weakness,
The hero's failure.

The hero's...
The hero's...
The hero's...

Here's to those who never got to be their own.

[We make no apologies for the fact that 'hero' no longer looks like a word.]


Yeah, I know, not subtle. In other news!

Things I Should Be Writing:
- [ profile] i_reversebang stuff AUGH.
- Stuff for a proper writing class (linked to my offline identity, so never going to appear here)

Things I Have Written:
- 500+ words of Brick fanfiction that is superficially about Brendan teaching Emily to play chess, and actually about Emily's horrendously low self-esteem, and also about her niggling and mostly-ignored hatred of condescension.

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Aw hell, I COMPLETELY DROPPED THE POETRY BALL yesterday. Er, two today and call it good? Maybe three, for penance's sake. First, angry feminist meta! I am tempted to rewrite the opening with different imagery, because towards the end some of this post got in there. Cutting 'em all to save your flists.

An Open Letter from the Far Side of the Fourth Wall
[...] )

Second! Er, more vague feminist poetry. I am not sure I 100% espouse this character's principles on sex, but the core idea of 'firsts have exactly the significance that you place on them and loss of virginity doesn't necessarily mean more than any other new thing' (or at least, that's what I meant to be getting at!) is an interesting one. So.

Define First (Then Justify)

[...] )

And finish the evening off with what is well and truly word vomit and so up-front about it that it comes back around to be technically art. OR AT LEAST I SURE HOPE SO. This is also basically what my mind has looked like 10-30 minutes before a lot of these posts.

Blank Page at One-Thirty
[...] )
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augh sleep what.

[Adjective] Badges

You treat your scars like tattoos:
I got this one at a circus in Canberra
this was for a girl I used to know
this from the first ship I ever loved
and that one, it’s a complicated story…

and you settle in to tell.
Where is the shame, I wonder
for the weaknesses written on the skin
everyone you took a knife for
every mistake you ever made?

How do you sit and soak up sun
shoulders bare and collarbones
skin scorching pink between the pale?

(I could trace each and every line
so easily – stand out so clear
and the worst part is, you’d let me
explaining every nick and shine
for everyone to hear)

Did no one teach you how to hide
all the ugliness that’s left you
laughing on the deck, eye streaming mirth?

When did you miss the lessons on perfection
on pretending that it all came fast as breathing
on never admitting that you weren’t strong enough
to do anything more than just survive?

Why don’t you know that you’re supposed to be ashamed?
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I did not give up on the poetry! What I did do was say "Hmm, poem... no clue, I will do it later" around three times, turn off my computer, go to bed, and then realize that I hadn't actually written anything. Cue frantic middle-of-the-night shuffle for pen and paper, because I didn't want to lose so early but I was damned if I was turning my computer back on, and anyway the goal was to write a poem per day, not post one.

So, yesterday's poem! Which... is basically trying to be three different poems at once, I think, and a fourth that got tossed while writing the first draft. (And yes, I'm afraid I'm going to be posting today's poem later, although probably not for a few hours so you won't get totally spammed.)

As Long As We Can Say We Chose It
No one loves like the freaks in the night,
music turned up quiet to echo off the silence
quick, set up the lights so we can see the shadows.
Everyone's asleep. You're isolated, not alone.
Here in the fragile midnight hours we're the rulers of the world.
Everything's a secret when there's nobody to tell
so only two people know; it all becomes a secret when
we want something our own to share. That's what this is,
reshaping silence to our moods, naming loneliness
a precious gift to share; we take control of emptiness
and throw in everything that we know how to feel.
Nobody loves like us.
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I'm not quite sure about this one, but I like a few lines of it, at least. (Many thanks for the encouragement, as well.)

The Handmaiden

Watch, learn
look at the smile staining her lips
the dark scarlet of rich red wine
soaking into priceless royal damask;
look at the motion of her hand
waving pale and graceful, like
a silk flag of surrender
improvised from petticoats, and
hiding betrayal-coated daggers;
listen to her laugh, like breaking plates
set to violins and flutes, since as always
disaster is immortalized in art;
look at the glass she raises to a toast
and remember that she truly earned
her disrespect for honor, promise her
your silence for the bruises purpling
across her back.

You owe her everything, and at
the very least, a drop of poison if she asks.
Someday she will.
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I am rapidly losing motivation for this (a poet I am not, it seems), but I threw this together anyway.

Elegy, or however you say it

They died where the waves come in,
if it helps at all to know. And does it
truly matter? no, a death’s a death
the criminals wipe each other out
and the police tape up the mess.

but some of us, we always wonder
did she die laughing (yes) and did he
go out calling the sky a fucker’s son
(of course he did, the crazy bastard)
and was she frightened at the end,
the girl I taught to hold a gun
(no, she was proud to face ‘em down
she always thought you trained her well)

to some of us, it makes a difference
that Marty died with Pablo’s ragged scarf
binding the blood, that they found Amelie
with Kim and Christy’s picture in her hand,
and that wild-tattooed Rhonda
left us with a prayer for us without her
and always swore she didn't believe in God.

yeah, the papers report them all in smudgy print
and their last little numbers line the litterbox and
catch the finger paint, but to some of us it always matters
where and when and why they died
and how it was they said goodbye

to some of us, that’s all that really matters.


(In unrelated news, wordcount for the Fic o'Doom: 13,600 and counting. Again: the plan for this was 3,000. Yeah, that panned out. Almost done though!

...of course, now I have to find someone masochistic enough to beta it by the 18th. Yikes.)
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Greater Things Than Passion

The love I need is not devotion
dogging at my heels
and drowning me in guilt-inducing letters
pages upon pages pleading for me to return
I don’t need the pristine sheets turned down
empty until I stagger home to you
I do not seek a life dependent
upon my own; I do not want the weight
of your well-being weighing all my options down,
and the worst that you could ever give me,
all that I cannot ever carry
is your limp and bloodied corpse
between me and someone else’s knife.

That love, so great and terrible, is not for me,

ah, no! I look for welcome,
for open smiling arms
in a house with all the windows open
and no space ready-set for me
but the willingness to make one,
with a shelf of bandages
for anyone who comes along
and no reservations when
I need yet another roll of gauze,
a place, a lover for many people
somewhere that would be fine without me
but always happy to have me there.
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NaPoWriMo day #2, written mostly so I can say I did. Not much fussed about the distinctions of midnight at the moment, personally; I'm not in bed yet, therefore it counts.

starry-eyed with history
The wild sky stretches out like memory
vague and clear
a hundred thousand colors impossible to blend.
it is as far away as morning
as very close as breath
it is the distant gleaming stars
the brilliance of dead civilization.
This light I breathe hear now
the light of stars –
this image, here, I see millennia.
visions of the past in dots of bright
swirling underneath the drifting clouds
like wool or watercolor dripped and spilled
such a silly vaporous thing to interrupt the shine of time.
the brilliance catches minute by minute
the hunters and the celestial queens,
we see them before their naming
it is not till untold generations
will see them as they burn now.
the past, in all its regret, its mystery
so clear and yet so very far away.

Also, I saw Sucker Punch today. Strong feelings, mostly positive; I was going to post about them and then RL drama/issues explosion happened on the way home, so now my buzz is sort of killed. Eager to find fanfic, though, and I think Snyder had enough ideas in there for three movies.


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August 2012

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