[x]

tree, fiddler crabIt took days to hollow out the soft parts
of the trunk, dig out the tree-flesh and sap,
polish the raw wood so that when he sat,
there would be no splinters. He carved his name
into the side, like a blessing, a declaration
of good fortune, and stowed his forest inside.

IfWe can
draw lines and give them names
like elements
as they are discovered

Or etch into our skins
this soloecal desire
until it is impossible to tell
where words stop
and life begins.

I would

Find a common rhythm that includes
you in my arms, my hands
and lungs and thoughts
tracing the outline of you
entangled with me
colliding like two lost particles
locked in a shared gravity
drifting through the vacuum
of space.

I could.

Exhale, and
remember
sentence structure.

Va'eiraThis was a lesson in just how quiet it can be
when you don't make enough noise.

Me, holding a toy gun to a stranger's head
"Remember when things stopped being ridiculous?"

You, eating dandelions in a midnight field
"About the same time things stopped making sense."

A boy in church camp carved a small crucifix
for his arts and crafts project. He won the blue
ribbon and a brand new Bible. The next morning
I found it hanging over our cabin door.
A toad was nailed to the cross.
Still breathing.
Still breathing.

Sometimes we wake up early enough to hide the evil from our world.
Still breathing.

RosesYou love too much, I am told by a man with a briar heart, thorny sinews and collapsed ventricles bearing down on him, hardly beating in his tight chest. He looks at me with flat, slate eyes, chipping and eroding. His hands are dark with cigarette burns and rough with calluses; I feel them on my shoulders as he looks down at me, face collapsing in at his eyes like a dead man's.

For the first time, I realize he is dead. His briar heart dried up when winter killed his rose; my father, he is all thorns.

He squeezes my shoulders, too tight. You look like your mother, you know, he whispers, eyes shifting to the garden, to the yellow rose I plante

rootslike drowned men who have lost their
clothes and faces, they lay suspended
facing the sun and grinning without
eyes through the ripples of the water.

those passing by wonder how they got here,
these homeless men without fingers or toes
long spindly stumps twisting into lost roots:

reaching to the east, to the south,
to the homes they have forgotten.

sci-fi stories about the end of the world1.

the species invents prophecies
all of which contain terrors

ex;

a beleaguered sun collapses into itself

2.

It's not yet night when the committee interrupts the regularly scheduled programming
and describes the inertia as unforgivable.

Outside the grief, the cardboard:
Every time you teach a computer about distance
the terrorists win.

In every scenario: No colorado left,
and survivors leave messages
for the future.

Before the last people on Earth forgot how to speak,
he thought of that day.

The committee was right
to describe space as an absence.

3.

The more artistic
of the species' prophecies include fields

Some
prese

inhalethe cavalry have forgotten
their men in the mud
and i fear we are
running out of ammunition,
ambition,
i mean
we never had much
to begin with
we've not got the fire of a
thousand horses but maybe
two.
sometimes
two will do.

WhitewashWhen you're five years old you set a promise in the dark, your sister's ice-queen eyes witness. Millie is sitting straight-backed against the headboard, face wide and earnest, and it seems as if the world has heaped itself on her shoulders, or maybe it's the strangeness of midnight.

"We can't make our wills or anything like that until we're eighteen," she says fiercely. "But I might forget this by then."

In later years you will find time to reflect that you're not as whimsical as Millie; young, you only think then that you could never forget something this important. But you can't argue with the three-years-older she holds above your head (

windstorms and labworkafflatus, inflatus, my morning globe,
as lithe as your impermanence.
and home! dread homes! are rabbit dugs,
spoonholed piles of mexican brick
where nothing ever touches down,
nothing here alive receives
the plains’ poor offering of gypsy light,
the ugly wind that meets the mudline.

[metaphors]
1. a mottled fence
2. and how these storms hold faceless teeth
that slat their eyes through butter-wood
then purge their guts on wintered florets
4. some freshly headless nativities,
their polyethylene skirts upturned
from violent sacks
5. and knowing i’m a souless
speck

i lick at what is manifest
beneath your

The Animal(Howl into my ear;
give me your claws.
I want the animal in you;

in you I shall nest.)

Take your clothes off, take them off for me.
Let me see the scars and the marks,
those dark moles and faint sun spots.

I want to memorize the way your fur grows.
I want to tickle my cheeks with your goose bumps.
Let me count the bruises and the cuts.

I'll bless them with names;
I'll lick away the blood stains.
We can lie skin to skin for days.

I have enough kisses for your brows and lashes,
for nails, teeth and toes, for thighs and knees;
in your curves and dents I'll nuzzle my nose.

Let me see your skin dance.
Through and around; your

The PullWhen I was younger, someone showed me a video game—too weird for me, but it made her laugh, and she was pretty. You played as this little guy with a squishy hammer for a head, and you rolled a sticky ball around in front of you. As you rolled it, things got stuck until the ball was gigantic. And then... I don't know. I don't remember the point of the game, nor do I remember the name.

But that image comes back to me every time I am anxious. I am that little person running around, pushing a ball, and things stick to it. Only they aren't cows or trees or parts of buildings: they are things that make me nervous. The attention of people. My

think youre a slam poet nowwell, my father
he thought he was a cowboy,
he thought he was a yank
he thought everyone he met was his partner in crime
and life was an all end all shoot-em-up
he told stories
and he taught me how to dance with drunks.
well my mother,
she thought i was a changeling,
she thought the world was out to get her
she taught me
well she taught me that innocence is fragile
and that what is sweet often sours,
that madness is not the kind of disease we think it is.
and i grew up
wanting to create something beautiful
or hideous
or both at the same time
with my little hands, and big eyes
and that used to scare me
terrify me,
cause contradictions in my head
at night, when i dream't
with my hand against my ear
thinking the pounding of blood vessels
was the pounding of the big bad wolf coming to get me
and i would dream of the world
ending
with the trampling of a flower,
no sir,
these eyes
they are not haunted
but they are inhabited,
because
i have a soul sir,
and i won't sell it
not for your pennies

AntiquatedYour rose petal hips
Will always demur
To your ivory lace slip,
The stockings climbing
High on calves and thighs
Like a garden trellis
Near the blooming soul
Between your open legs,
The place where he
Could love you the most

SwallowI swallowed stones for a girl once,
tethered a daughter to my arm,
raised her with my own hands,
and pulsed so much blood
through the wire
it became a vein.

Eventually I fell,
slammed to the floor,
like a marionette savagely thrown
against a wall.
My guts were full,
of sediment and
my stomach swelled too much.

I breathed dust and ants,
swallowed as much as I was able,
and tried to get up
with my daughter in tow.

Clumsily falling back over,
with bruised hands and
forced, rough, breathing,
I felt tension
from the other side.

The line pulled taut and hard
and dragged me from its end
across so many splintering boards
I

Newspaper SuitI am a charlatan
peddling fraudulent wares
but nobody else can see
the pushpins
where adhesive didn't stick.
And you'd think the paper trail
from the newspaper suit
would give it away
but the pictures keep smiling
while underneath gangrene begins
and happy happy faces
mask the smell
of death.

Browse More Like This

more ▶

More from `tiganusi

Infidelities (A Translation)You were speaking of outdated things,
Of drowsy rose gardens
That spend their nights unsettled by
The echoed suffering of well-dressed musicians;
And of the little chapels where princesses
Linger, praying in silence;
And of the rustic four-post beds
That all the halfwits at the armory still use.
Oh! Your words spoke to my heart—
My heart both bored and hungry at once—and
Have awakened the sleeping:
All the lovers before you.
And they each stand up now,
In front of me in the stagnant evening,
Rising halfway out of the dream
Like a white body rises out of a black river.
Oh! The invisible rivals
That you yourself are calling forth:
These visions are the victors, unsettling
Our paled love like a river-dredging.
Between your breasts—merciful like nuns—
You try in vain to shield my brow.
You know my cruel desires
Would run me toward some distant lover,
And I know it well. Your amethyst eyes
Become full of honeyed blame
And I am saddened to death
To have no love left f

Maybe Anne Sexton Was On To Somethingconsider your car's steering wheel in your grip
as you turn the key in the ignition and the smoke
starts to sputter—you can't smell it, yet, only ink
under your fingernails and that half-full glass
of vodka whose twin burned a half-lit smile
on the face in your fogged rearview mirror.
consider the first time you'll look in a mirror
and see old eyes—the world's babyfingered grip
around them pinching crows'-feet when you smile
your forced smile—through your exhaled smoke.
like a death-echo of youth you'll grab a glass
of mediocre vodka and stain your lips with ink
from a thirty-cent black pen—the same cheap ink
you used for your wedding invitations. the mirror
will be your muse—that villainous square pane of glass
that confronts you with your reality: you've lost your grip
on your metabolism and all those cigarettes you smoked
made your mouth look like rotting corn when you smile.
you'll close your mouth, and at least then the sadist smile
will abandon you.

View Gallery · View Prints

Featured in Groups:

#TheOtherPoets
We're Just Different Here!

#PoeticalCondition
A safe place to express yourself

#TalentedWritersGuild
Talented writers, quality lit!

#WritersInk
What's your story?

#PoeticNation

#Word-Of-Art
Beauty is in the words...

#Shelf-of-Friends
A bookshelf full of friends.

#confessional-poetry
mea maxima culpa

Details

Submitted: December 1, 2012
Submitted with: Sta.sh Writer

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 43
Favourites: 127 [who?]
Views: 3,292 (2 today)

[x]

The Libra Husband

by `tiganusi, Dec 1, 2012, 11:07:07 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

I.
they can get you
in East Hampton for wearing red shoes
on a Thursday
  I don't know whether you knew
  that--I mean--do you know
  that?

II.
it's very hot in New York City
I like the terrible noise
you hear at night and all these terrible
drilling sounds--I never go to sleep 
unless the whole pavement is jumping
outside and it's a hundred degrees

III.
when I go to New York City I see myself
--Where have you been?
--Where have you been?
--Where have you been?
--Where have you been?
this is the revolutionary costume:
I never wear this
in East Hampton.

IV.
I'm not gonna spend another winter
in East Hampton--
in the first place I can't
I just can't
I can't spend another winter
out here in the country
I can't do it
I'm telling you--I can't
I can't get my figure back
unless I hit New York City

V.
any little rat's nest
in New York City
any little mouse hole
any little rat hole
even on Tenth Avenue
I would like better
  it's all a question
  of who you want to stay with.
I'm mad about animals but raccoons
and cats become a little boring

VI.
I didn't want a maintenance man:
I said "I'll take you home
for one night".
he couldn't do any work
he made good salads
but was drunk all the time--
I'm not ashamed 
of anything

VII.
I'm gonna get naked in just a minute
so you better watch out--I haven't got
any warts on me--
want a taste?
that would be a night
at the opera: do you want to
go up and photograph it
from the top porch?

VIII.
he doesn't want sex--
he's got about six girls
in East Hampton--
he's so busy--he's out
every single night
with a different girl--
it's very hard to live
nowadays--living
is very difficult

IX.
the cat's going to the bathroom
right in back of my portrait
--I'm glad he is--
at least somebody's doing
something they want

X.
I thought you'd been in New York City
long enough--you were getting
lines in your face
and that married man was not going 
to give you any chance at all

XI.
the libra husband
does not seek divorce
unless the conditions of his life are not 
adjustable

XII.
next summer if we're all living
I think a vegetable garden would be
a good thing in here--you don't get
enough sunlight in here
and you know kitties adore the sun

XIII.
I've been through the jungles--the
famous gardens of America:
I did.
I had my cake
loved it
masticated it
chewed it
and had everything I wanted
that's the cadenza--cadenza--
whatever you call it:
they'll have the whole house down soon

The Libra Husbandby `tiganusi

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

Found poem from various chunks of the documentary Grey Gardens.

I don't know if this speaks more to my hipsterness or sexual orientation, but it's definitely speaking to one or the other that I did a fucking found poem from Grey Gardens.

This was a by-product of trying to write something for the theme "The Kennedy Curse". Mashing up all this crazy-bitch kind of gave me a direction, at least.

ETA: For this piece getting decent attention, I'm curious--do many of you know what Grey Gardens is?

Daily Deviation

Given 2012-12-12

The Libra Husband by `tiganusi ( Featured by ^Beccalicious )

love 1 1

joy 2 2

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

`petrova Mar 14, 2013 Hobbyist

I just really like the use of words in this one, it intrigues me.

Grey Gardens, isn't that a documentary about two women living at a place called Grey Gardens. I've never seen it but I recognise the name and that was what popped up in my head.

~GalaxyGoddess Jan 22, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

This makes me laugh, I love the imagery.

`KathrynODriscoll Jan 10, 2013 Student Writer

_{Hey there I featured this piece here and just thought I'd let you know.

Thanks!}

`tiganusi Jan 11, 2013 Professional

Thanks hon!

Love the avatar, by the way.

`KathrynODriscoll Jan 11, 2013 Student Writer

_{You're welcome! and thanks! It is byyyy =AcidKitty3}

~Pursued-Alive Dec 12, 2012 Student Writer

I don't know what this is, but it's awesome anyway!

*revois Dec 12, 2012 Professional General Artist

this...I don't know what it is. But I keep rereading this. It's hitting me hard. Nice.

~TheSoapboxPoet Dec 12, 2012 Student Writer

Whoa, dude! This is awesome! I remember commenting on this before it got a DD... now I feel like a hipster.
Anyhow, congrats! That's so cool!

*archelyxs Dec 12, 2012

This is amazing work.

`cybergranny Dec 12, 2012 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

I don't know at all what Grey Garden is, but at that time, I'd like to be in your mind!
Congrats abd really well deserved, haven't been impressed by such a poem in a long time.

More from `tiganusi

Featured in Groups:

Details

Statistics

The Libra Husband

The Libra Husbandby `tiganusi

Daily Deviation

The Journal Portal

Polls

What is your preferred drawing software?

deviantART [dee·vee·un'nt·ART]

Keep in Touch!

Deviousness

Add Media

Style