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By Bryan Welch
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Yeah
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“This is a poem about rain,
not you,
so you will forgive me
if I only refer to you in the oblique,
fleetingly,
between the L-shaped sounds
of water,
shadowy places,
and a cerise sky.
Sometimes,
when the night is deep
you are out on the streets
and I’m waiting for sleep,
I send out rain
to follow you,
lopsidedly, as if a kind
ghost, as if through an
hourglass
you were seeing
sand at a slant.
So if I open the window a little,
swaying against glass,
test the air
for a possibility of rain,
perhaps you will forget
how, sometimes,
rain is complicated,
rain can break you if it wants.
Who knew, one night
rain under streetlamps
would aspire to the condition
of glow-worms?
This rain is a letter,
how it pulses through,
angling words
out of the slow scent of raw earth,
sudden lights.
But this poem is rain,
on you.”
C.S. Bhagya, “On Rain” (via larmoyante)
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Super accurate self-portrait.
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fuck trott
what if I died in your bed?
would you still wrassle my jimmies?the way your dress pulls on your nipples
as you do the fuck trot across
linoleum flooring
made to look like stones.should’ve gotten her pregnant, i think,
so i wouldn’t feel so damned
alone.is that a terrible thing to say?
that’s a terrible thing to say, ain’t it?
what am I? a tattoo of a diamond
on forearms?I’m not that dense of a person.
right.
