Fragments: Sweet, Touch, Anatomy, Bloodletting

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Open in style. Vignettes written from the months of June - July.

Submitted: July 22, 2009

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Submitted: July 22, 2009

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Sweet / I tasted sugar plums on my tongue as you pulled away, and licorice touched my lips as your hair began to float like endless particles of dust in the wind. You were threads of silk upon an aging loom, fingerpads soft, fingerprints remnants of past memories and present occurences. She had the gliding legs of gazelles and a mouth that closed and opened around slurred syllables and the subtle movement of the tongue like maple syrup, short and sweet. The room has slightly darkened, is somewhat muted - my hands are soft against your sides, and yours sharp against my neck, pushing, pulsing, waiting, tearing flesh and bone apart. We hide secrets like mouthless marionettes attached to foreign strings, thin and slipping, nerves pulsing, veins throbbing.

My bones snapped gentler than any other, like a note break slashed upon ivory keys - like a symphony should be played.

x

Touch / I tasted lime, as tendrils of hair touched my lips, flaxen silver and gold, tied by silken rose ribbon. There is a difference between the pulse and breath, hearing the beat and feeling the cold air. Please place your cutlery to the skin and tender bone, the moonshine cast upon pale flesh and golden collars. There is a greater language than spoken word, an elder voice cast by touch, of calloused fingers against fine cells woven onto others. There are dimensions were all are cast in glass, bodies folding easily like joints in motion, collapsible threads. It lacked translation or decreation, decomposition being futile above all else. They were dancing figures, glass ballerinas, feeble bones and lacking hair, modestly spread on mantlepieces. We hid the word artist beneath paper-thin sheets, and I faced my palms to the sky, waiting for rain, as sweat pooled in crevasses, and phantoms crawled beneath my skin, little insects swimming in rivers of blue and red - an itch, a regrettable stamp on our pencilled limbs. Bodies like to frame the walls, twisting arms, twisting legs, the sound of bones feebly breaking to the touch, and you failed to remember. With the crack of your knuckles, you sprouted simple verse and flowers bloomed from my skin.

x

Anatomy / I find that the fabric of cotton surrendering warmth is my third skin, and the one that coats the bone the second. I ask, what is the first? I do not know, does anyone know? My nimble fingers toy with hems, pulling upwards, like the sharp removal of a bandage - only less painful, slightly less. There is a separation of fibres - of fabric or from a woven quilt of cells and capillaries. My hands touched rounded plastic and your breath was warm against my ear, your fingers trembling at the nape of my neck and the small of my back. As we embrace, limbs and all, calcium white, cadmium red and cobalt blue, I felt our bones snap and mould to fit one another. You had your eyes low like your voice and you told me how we were toys. You caught my voice that lay in my throat and kept it in a jar filled with cold fireflies, glowing green, flirting with vibrating chords which once lay in my sore throat. You were grandiose in your manner of fingering, your hands teasing night air, casting animal shadows onto concrete walls and concrete floor, silhouettes coming to life. As you forgot, I transferred myself onto paper and pen, paint and canvas, and saw myself fade, right before innocent eyes and softened tongues. I left myself in the bittersweetness of the skin between each of your vertebra and the cinched skin between neck and bone.

x

Bloodletting / I saw pale fires that night, bright lights flickering at my limbs, bending. the sky - I remember it was bright, like the fluorescent lights against the darkened tiles in my bathroom, but the air, it was so cold, and the ground beneath the pads of my feet didn’t feel like soil. It wasn’t soil. The trees were mocking me, like shadows of dead giants and old kings and the branches grazed the skin beneath my clavicle and I heaved so hard. I remember it hurting, and the stars were a sheet of speckled fabric that someone put over my eyes because the dark was becoming far too much. Too much…? When i look to my fingers there are rosebuds and dandelions putting a fight to the wind, and they strangle each other like a little war. There were a lot of dragonflies and broken bodies, I don’t know why they were there. they have little fingernails and rebellious, beating wings, and they seemed to glimmer when my wounds opened and fell into crevasses in the earth. But it still hurt. My fingers were warm and the bones felt old, sore, and weak, and everyone said it was normal but the wind was so harsh to the water in my eyes. Everything throbbed with a dull ache as I watched the termites climb up my legs then over and under my thighs and under my skirt where I wore nothing. Everything was dark after that, my tongue was gone, eyes missing and face faceless, I traced my fingers looking for eyelashes and the peeling skin of my lips (like dead flowers, you said). I counted the number of teeth in my palm: canine, incisor, molar, pre-molar and the bone was yellowing and it smelled eerily sweet. My hands were weathered, and my fingers treeless, and I could feel myself merging, slowly merging. My feet were wet, brown water and blue ripples. The skin over my hips was so thin, and it was yellowgreenredgold and the meat was tough, you said, as you chewed the inside of my heart, tongue against my ribs, tasting blood and raw, but it felt like woodgrains as you ran your fingers over, strumming sorry.


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