All posts tagged: poetry

“Imperfect paradise”- a random re-blog

Originally posted on TheFeatheredSleep:
Today baby, everyone is pert and beautiful Photoshopped at perfect angle Swollen lips, weak jaw, 2000 friends with guitars Can’t keep up, even if I were two and twenty Better my generation-X lost our film Before developing Didn’t keep a record, of that mistake, or this bad day We pretend and forget, imprecision a comfort blanket Not wanting to keep in touch, why force natural closure with technology? We lost your digits and never knew your surname A blurry mystery of poor memories Was it that candlelit poet’s bar now closed? No proof, no evidence, if a tree falls, does anyone know, if it’s not on Instagram? I liked your home dyed hair, we shared night under looming sky in damp sleeping bag You fucked my ideals of love when you slept with her Sent me on my way with a trash bag of belongings A dead squirrel slothing skin, lay ackwardly beneath your window Its stink remaining when I was gone Rumor had it you used her hose as contraceptive…

The Weyward Sisters: Back to Black/ Collaborative Amy Winehouse Tribute

Originally posted on Sudden Denouement Collective:
Rana Kelly/2nd star to the Left, straight on ’til morning Oh, Amy Whenever I go walking In my stilettos, I hear you talking. Dream me up a way Of swishing my hips And pursing my lips And singing your riffs So that I find beauty Like you. lois e. linkens she puts her black dress on in the dark, anxious nails red and messy in their early-morning artistry. he left the candle burning in the winter window – vanilla and cinnamon on a Sunday evening, tears and vodka on a Monday morning. last week’s relief breathes into tonight’s regrets, but the shadowy smear on the glass is all that is left of him. Aakriti Kuntal/Writings of Aakriti Kuntal Rummaging through black air, nauseous red nails bearing oily seas Suffocating existence with conversations, conversations with glittering nail cutters, cracked moons laughing hysterically in them Conversations of fallen boyfriends, of fallen love Fallen being the new being Aurora Phoenix/Insight From Inside She scrawls lines up the back of her fishnet stockings wiggly-lined intoxicated rebellion strutting down memory…

Poetry and knives

I saw this poetry on Facebook today, and it made me sweat. It happened live last night in Australia, and thank goodness my friend Kelly shared it early, so it exploded into my morning. Now it’s Trending all over the place, and rightly so. Kate Tempest ‘Progress’ poem Someone in the Comments called her a mediaeval prophet, and I think that’s perfect. She is completely embodying her passion, her skill, her need to communicate. I love her. So young, and so smart. Did you notice the tweet ‘Kate Tempest reminds us old farts that we stopped maintaining the rage’? Brilliant, and true. So I’m nearly 50, and just missed being a dreaded Baby Boomer, slipping quietly into Gen-X instead. I don’t think I’m particularly materialistic, although I enjoy my I-phone, and laptop, but I don’t think they rule my life…and sometimes I do indeed take Dylan Thomas’s advice: “Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light…” If …

If shit goes down, I dance

Sometimes I feel the buzz of the energy in my head so loudly, I want to shake it out. So I do: I dance. I dance 5Rhythms in my bedroom, in the lounge, at the big Hall with a hundred other bodies, or on the empty early morning beach. I’m posting this right now, eating a piece of toast, then going to dance. And I just came across this poem by Jewel Mathieson: We have come to be danced not the pretty dance not the pretty pretty, pick me, pick me dance but the claw our way back into the belly of the sacred, sensual animal dance the unhinged, unplugged, cat is out of its box dance the holding the precious moment in the palms of our hands and feet dance We have come to be danced not the jiffy booby, shake your booty for him dance but the wring the sadness from our skin dance the blow the chip off our shoulder dance the slap the apology from our posture dance We have come …

Poem: ‘Always’ by Pablo Neruda

I am not jealous of what came before me. Come with a man on your shoulders, Come with a hundred men in your hair, Come with a thousand men between your breasts and your feet, Come like a river full of drowned men which flows down to the wild sea, To the eternal surf, to Time! Bring them all to where I am waiting for you; We shall always be alone, we shall always be you and I alone on earth, To start our life!