chirleep

The ocean's deep; my grief is deeper. Poseidon strikes my legs and eats the sun. Kronos ate his heirs; Apollo, my brother Apollo, Does Poseidon swallow him, does Triton Fit inside his father's kingdom like a man fits in a woman? This I ponder.  Wine-dark seas Break as bright as silver, and my sight's Obscured by night. Given time, you might become Beloved by me, my king.  Your queen. I'm child no more.  You snatched me from my home. But child's love would rot if offered to you. This I ponder.  And I think on things you've said, On gestures you have made.  The ocean's deep. Poseidon is the ocean, and yet not.  There lies Below m

A man was dying in the ancestral rose garden.  He had been dying for an hour.  The sharp pains and the spasms had stopped.  He lay on his back in the dirt, only moving his eyes.  His feet and legs were bound at three intervals, the mark of a great sinner. The man looked past his brow, to the white roses outlined against the evening sky.  He looked upward, to a star that was in line with the tip of his nose.  He had quite an impressive nose.  It was long and hooked, and at the end it knotted like a fist.  At the moment, he found it bothersome.  Through a fog, he thought, I wish they had chopped off my nose.  Then I could see more stars.  He c

blind beast scaly great diggingclawed with hooves of iron beast with tail of flame tusked or tuskless eyed or eyeless beast in the rough-bristled hide embedded jewels the breath volcanic the milky spit dirtcaked and mudadorned, the lonely ugly beast. approaches beauty soft slouched smallwristed long of lash sharp of chin disgusting impossible you skinny whore lips shape ancient characters too old to be ugly and too new to be good, you beauty you slender diabolical redundant symmetrical, the hollows of your cheeks thumbprint bruises on an apple.

Time bleached you, palm cross, Hardened your veins into bones. In the dim dim light of my west-facing window In the dim dim morning light like water In a pond of my dreams still draining You appeared insubstantial as paint. Palm cross, I lost you. (It seemed likely I would understand you by now. But I don't.)  My skin remembers Your brittle curve, like a ribbon. The priest, what was The color of his robes?

Why are things made if you can't adore them? I adore what I make and you know I adore you. I adore flowers that are opening when I look at them. I concentrate hard to let them know I love them. (Dream petals parting, revelation of unimaginable shades, Moving fraction by fraction of distance, unimaginable sound.)

Once I made.  I gave. I was useful.  I had use. Now useless sit I, Willing wait I: Gas without a stove. I need to learn again How I was before you. I need to learn again How to go about my life. How to light from within That animating fire. Others burn too swift, But the real wild fire… I want to be beautiful and useful like fire. I want to be magic. How did I ever imagine That your love would make me good?

Once upon a time, there was a village on the edge of the sea.  The people of the village fished for a living (occasionally, of course, they supplemented said fishing with a little hunting or gathering, but that was only occasionally, and their ties to the sea were much stronger than their ties to the ungulates, or the lichen, or the little red berries that caused hallucinations and were used in coming of age rites).  Their livelihood was dependent on the sea, which could choose to give them food or drown them; could choose to wipe their houses clean off the surface of the earth, or protect them from the odd but existent attack from a more war

One January, her mother imagines her: imagines her skin in the snow below her window, her voice in the wind that drives that snow against the glass.  Her lips come in June, red like her father’s blood (thought it would stain the white stone forever).  Her hair comes, black and thin, in the shadows of her mother’s cell.  And when the next January arrives, so does she. Her mother dies soon after the birth, or maybe she’s just hidden.  Doesn’t matter.  A childless aunt takes her, more out of propriety than any kin-feeling, and raises her the way you raise a cactus: gingerly,

mornings you're so sweet to me, like sugar in a glass you are. evenings you are bittersweet, you cling to me like smoke and tar. - i like your wrists when they are red from being slapped, from rubber bands i've wound round thrice and not released. i dearly love to hurt your hands. - if you want to make a mark on somebody as marked as me, i suggest you file your nails and scratch my neck more ardently.