Roses and Coffee by camelopardalisinblue, literature
Literature
Roses and Coffee
Masarm takes his coffee black
like the collar of his favourite shirt
and the shadow of childhood;
Sally tempers the tartness of taste
with salt and sugar-crusted
petals of roses in her cup.
When he's angry, Masarm
burns fiercely, a brooding
that bites only himself, and Sally,
when she's angry, spits
acid and flings plates
that shatter over his head.
Still, somehow it's always Masarm
who sends flowers; Masarm
who swallows down the bitterness.
when you dream, your grandmother asks
"what do you think of tattoos?"
and her mouth twists upwards
as an echo of a smaller you
beribboned in texta
asks the same question.
when you visit, your daughter asks
"grandma, what do you think of tattoos?"
and your mother's mouth twists--
when you were 18 and rubbed raw
when you ached and arched and fought
when you were growing thorns under your skin
and you came home
a canvas,
your mother's mouth twisted,
and with a snub-nose sniff,
demanded you cover that ugly thing.
later, when your daughter's daughter
draws an awkward portrait on her wrist
you tell her,
"it's beautiful"
Camelopardalis by camelopardalisinblue, literature
Literature
Camelopardalis
Beyond the earth, Giraffe roams
between Queen and Bear--
Ursa Major dips her shaggy head
and somewhere in Sweden,
a man docks his boat.
The riverbank embraces the gift
and crickets sing as mist
settles; Mattias knots his ropes,
beckons to dusk; a distant daughter
whistles through the phone line
a requiem of family,
a flowered branch twining
between the man he was and the one
beside the night waters.
Mattias and his wife
grow older by the moment
and with the world twisting
beneath her, Giraffe
silently watches.
i break myself down into sections
like Ruby stripping on stage
at that kind of club,
it's raw and fresh and
yes, a little bit
unnerving
because beneath this flesh
there are writing bones,
winter bones, bones that
flower with words
instead of ripening marrow
and when i die, will they wither
or write themselves home?
mistakes i make every day by camelopardalisinblue, literature
Literature
mistakes i make every day
1. rise,
like the world isn't a garden
of dead things, as though
snails aren't mourning
their broken shell-homes.
2. believe,
like this is a fairytale
where the hero always comes home
whole; as though
wolves aren't burst-bellied
with dead children.
3. breathe,
like the sky isn't empty
of hope and nesting birds,
as though being
is enough.
your kisses aren't free by camelopardalisinblue, literature
Literature
your kisses aren't free
I won't paint you crimson beads,
or dark wine spills, or bladed kisses,
nor will I write you into
many-hued nebulae.
I won't sing you into a song of
delicate lacework over skin
or create a dance around
the prettiness of bones.
I don't want them to imagine
beauty or romance--
you are nothing more than open mouths
breathing hunger.
loving on suicide watch by camelopardalisinblue, literature
Literature
loving on suicide watch
a spilling of cornflakes
skittering across the counter--
thoughts crunch over themselves,
words like tranquilliser; suicide;
hospital hospital hospital.
it's been three days since i took him in
handed the responsibility of his life
to the professionals,
and still, the fear follows me,
the way the razor would look
on his nightstand, missing
the one most vital piece
and it, fallen to the floor
beside him
the gasping of air at 2am
when i'm convinced he's tied himself
to the ceiling, a breathless kite
on a belt-string
the sudden bang of a backfire
raising my heart rate,
an easy overdose, pills slipping
from his fists down his throat,
all the
My Beach has Crabs instead of Mermaids by camelopardalisinblue, literature
Literature
My Beach has Crabs instead of Mermaids
I started early, took my dog
and visited the sea. We walked along
the sandy edge where the waves withdrew,
faced down the crabs who
bent their heads and bickered;
'til each as one
brandished pincer claws
at puppy nose, and puppy paws.
The sight alone would move me,
were the crabs a little larger;
instead the dance of emboldened claw
on soldier blue gave birth to giggles
'till the tide slipped up and the crabs declined
our company, digging themselves
caves and burrows deep.
We watched a while, till the tide
went past my simple shoe,
pulling at the knees of
my companion, and snatching
at her fur, and made as though
to eat her up as wholly
as