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Literature Text
Did the ticking drive you mad?
Twenty two clocks to tie you
to Greenwich, to the damp land,
to the paved streets and spires
and the blank glazed windows
of progress and age? Did time
become fathoms deep, and the
dwindling abyss transform to
thoughts of deep, deep time?
The blind eyes of bottom dwellers,
the feelers of those that survived,
the wellings of primordial soup
perhaps flavoured your thoughts.
(you never saw them. We know
you never saw the elemental broth,
the creatures like to dinosaurs
in a Blackpool of phosphorescence.
But the mystery, perhaps. The thought
that things exist beyond your imagining.
The thought that time stretches, deep
and wider than the books all told.
Perhaps that ocean thought stirred you.)
And when you thought of long
lived turtles in their shells and short
lived finches with precision beaks,
did you think of second hands and hours,
the life of a gnat and a continent,
the age of the rocks on which the
lizards sunned? Did, perhaps, each
degree of longitude between your feet
and the Greenwich mean, and the depths
of ocean between, seem like an age
in itself, your life fragile, stuttering
on the shore, and all your hopes placed
in wood and the subtle degrees of time?
Twenty two clocks to tie you
to Greenwich, to the damp land,
to the paved streets and spires
and the blank glazed windows
of progress and age? Did time
become fathoms deep, and the
dwindling abyss transform to
thoughts of deep, deep time?
The blind eyes of bottom dwellers,
the feelers of those that survived,
the wellings of primordial soup
perhaps flavoured your thoughts.
(you never saw them. We know
you never saw the elemental broth,
the creatures like to dinosaurs
in a Blackpool of phosphorescence.
But the mystery, perhaps. The thought
that things exist beyond your imagining.
The thought that time stretches, deep
and wider than the books all told.
Perhaps that ocean thought stirred you.)
And when you thought of long
lived turtles in their shells and short
lived finches with precision beaks,
did you think of second hands and hours,
the life of a gnat and a continent,
the age of the rocks on which the
lizards sunned? Did, perhaps, each
degree of longitude between your feet
and the Greenwich mean, and the depths
of ocean between, seem like an age
in itself, your life fragile, stuttering
on the shore, and all your hopes placed
in wood and the subtle degrees of time?
Literature
before I'm 30
I want to dance in really high heels,
hear a new Modest Mouse cd,
write a poem like Sage Francis.
I want to be kissed by someone who means it
need less medication
and no hospitals.
I want to read my work to someone who cries,
someone who laughs and someone who decides
to be a poet, even though they're still afraid.
I want to find the right words
to teach my daughter about love
and happiness and hope.
I want to be more practical most days
and more radical some days
and stand up to be counted
everyday.
Literature
Sapiosexual
I don’t know what I’ll do
when the first fistful
of dirt hits the bottom.
Maybe I’ll follow you to the grave.
Or maybe I’ll pray
for a zombie apocalypse,
so we can dine on each
other’s brains one more time.
Literature
Zemi
Things having to be returned to their transparency:
i.
/ green mist-earth / knit
atmosphere / fathomless
blue-lavender / lights
spun out from light
ii.
are recalcitrance / and you
are convergence
& - a fingernail of summer
- a melting of rain
- a crown of flowers
- a priest of sunsets
(beautiful? I love you, because. Zemi.
Zemi. are you beautiful because I love
you? Zemi? )
iii.
I imagine this is what it's like to breathe sea foam
over the Cliffs of Moher: hydration. absolution.
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Full title: To Darwin, on Hearing of the Twenty-Two Chronometers on the Beagle
[link] And Pick of the Day, too
[link] And Pick of the Day, too
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