|i think it's called art.|
How a Grandmother Leaves YouHe does not look at the loosened light,How a Grandmother Leaves You by LeftUnfinished
murdered, sprayed on the walls in a temporary graffiti, rotting lumps of it swept under her bed
along with nine pairs of slippers, papery sheets of it tearing thinner than a yellowed wedding veil
across her blankets.
I hold her skin that smells like decomposing paper and fuzz,
that turns to milk to cinnamon to coffee grounds
beneath an entangled net of veins zigzagging up the wispy bones of her arms.
I do not know how many times I have mistaken the feeling of marble for her hands,
or the dumb slapping of flip flops on sidewalks for the snapping of wings.
I can hear charred pots that look like trash cans, gurgling,
digesting something embryonic in thick kitchen sauces, fickle and tangy.
Around her she has clothed the sparse, looming woods on balding heads,
and scratchy scalps on furniture
in plastic jackets to prevent them from aging alongside her.
The withering afternoon wears a sunhat, broad and wheat-yellow as it heaves itself to her bedside,
When The White Mountains Go HungryI would gladly give my set of china cups tattooed with flowers, that stack and ring, that I am told never to use, my skin, sore and tender and splintering, for what is left of your bare teeth,When The White Mountains Go Hungry by LeftUnfinished
soft, and gums laced with copper wire. I want to feel what it’s like to have my veins charged.
In dreams I only wear golden anklets, heavy and bright, in the shape of snakes, twisting tightly around my calves, because I am too young to know that they could pull me down
by my clanking ankles the moment I step off the bed. And I ask you what about your lips, reattached using tape and all the glue you could find. Where have they been. You answer,
in the warm air of our mouths what was once filled with dust is filled with snow,
and we must live with it.
You trace the pair of them with lipstick like a child coloring with a crayon. It looks like your mouth is leaking with blackberries before I wake.
I once heard that in Arabic my name means by the sea, someone who eats the smooth fragments
Dear JuliaJulia, I dreamt I plucked the moon from the sky between my forefinger and thumb,Dear Julia by LeftUnfinished
and that your face was a roadmap, that your hair was the crosshatchings of subway trails,
that your bones were the coarse paths worn by visionaries, that your lips were scraped bare
like city streets, that your skin was scratched blue like notes scrawled in margins, that your teeth
were the dead ends and the lost compass needles of travelers.
Maps were unraveling all over your eyes.
Julia, I am worried about time.
I know how much the human soul weighs; I carried one last weekend.
It was like a bird,
so throbbing and alive it seemed to be kicking against my closed hands.
The old man across the street has found cigarettes again. His hair is smoke,
and he breaks the necks of his chickens
just to hear the bones cracking.
Julia, I wanted to be loved the way you love a language.
I wanted silence to shimmer between us before slithering away beneath an empty moon.
Or if I was miraculously whol
Love as Street ArtYou are surrounded by tissue paper leaves that you’d like to think are Iranian carpetsLove as Street Art by LeftUnfinished
embroidered with a kaleidoscope of fractals and vines. You imagine a ring
in the form of a spider that climbs your thumb, its thin angles studded with rubies,
intertwining its golden body with yours until you trace its hardness with your fingertips.
There are fluttering curtains of shaggy-headed trees, billowing fabrics
that drape over your arms. At your feet you think of the hides
of large animals from Venezuela and Mali. Asphalt is the exalted skin of the elephant.
You should have felt the cut of slanting light as dawn
released its tentative embrace, and seen how the yoke sun
cracked over burnt crusts of sky,
but the rain undressed you,
no, ravaged you,
and left the world photocopied.
He leaves footprints in your rug.
As he drinks the water that’s been pooling in your calves, you notice
how his enamored eyes look like the distance between the last place and this one.
Your lips ar
|wondering where my mind goes in math class.|
you decide that the sun must be shot,
as it roars with its gaping possibilities.
blood smeared on your thighs.
it must be killed cleanly, skinned and seared with dignity,
a slab of light,
with its opaque juices,
crawling down your throat, inside and out,
dewey and dripping with its packs of luminous muscle,
a satisfactory sheen,
no longer beating and throbbing as the heart of Day.
and with your fork, its spongy filaments
are torn methodically from dawn.
"To live is so startling there is hardly time for anything else." - Emily Dickinson
Hello. I'm Amelia, as far as I know. Some people call me Mia, some call me Amy, and some people call me Weird. Take your pick.
Here is where I fill up a box with vague things about the life of an adolescent female. I am not a very interesting subject to fill up a box with, anyway - just your average silent-in-class writing weirdo.
things of lesser importance:
Girl: hazel eyes, freckles, brown hair, short legs [female consumerism makes it tough], long fingers, long neck, cellist, weird
I work best with classical music on
My fingers and toes are permanently cold
Professional daydreamer and people-watcher
I love a good witty T-shirt
Lover of small, useful things
Allergic to most marine life, mammal dander, and nuts
I love old movies
Night is the best time to write
I like to cry over novels and eat chocolate cake
I enjoy vertebrae, fingers, rib-cages, and all those other elegant ivory fortresses of nature
I am a collector of words and have an addiction to day-dreaming [which is harmful to my Precalculus grade]
Artificial flavour of choice: wintergreen
I will always dislike wide-ruled paper.
I love being alone in strange places
Large dogs make excellent pillows
I get too excited over stationary
I have a birthmark in the middle of my right thigh that looks like a paint smudge
I want to write fiction, maybe for television and film, maybe poetry. Haven't really decided yet.
I keep a notebook next to my bed because ideas seem to spring when I have sleep deprivation
I'm also in love with real books, not electronic ones
Ask me stuff -- I don't bite
My extremely special Flickr: www.flickr.com/photos/94745088…
Anything more you want to know about me, feel free to ask!
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