|Poetry, prose, and photos.|
And Then I Realized I Was Blindwhen you coughAnd Then I Realized I Was Blind by TalkativeMute
and it reverberates
through your lungs
a hurricane of the soul
and closed mind
and deafened eyes
music comes in as light
it’s too soon
for sad goodbyes
take me away I’m just a paper plane
on the sidelines
you were carried here
by wind torrents and gravity
you were right
i was blinded in a crash
at age sixteen
and freudian slips
you said goodbye
when you were meant to say hi
at least I couldn’t see you
Briars in FairylandThere was a girl that livedBriars in Fairyland by TalkativeMute
in a fairytale grove,
at least that’s what she believed it to be.
(It may have been a squat
slate grey home in the suburbs
with heating that always broke
But whatever: the details aren’t important.)
She grew up on a steady diet
of self medicated lies
and sour berries picked
from the vines that bit when she reached in blind.
her face and hands
were always stained
with berry juice
and the blood she spilt to get it.
(Everyone always noticed the berries
and no one ever noticed the blood.
Funny that, isn’t it?)
She had scars on her hands
from the brambles that grow
in places children
aren't supposed to play in.
Fenced off forest corners
barred with briars and thistles and wire.
Hollows made of wilted grass
and broken bottles
that look away from the concrete.
(It really is easy to believe you’re in a fairy world
if you just keep looking east.)
Marks from bruises
and inked up fingerprints
that no one
WebDon’t you hear that?Web by TalkativeMute
The whisper of the leaves and the hush among the trees?
Near silence: but you hear the heartbeat.
And can’t you feel
That your bones are made of ivy?
Don’t you know?
That you’re rooted to this place in an ancient kind of way?
You know you breathe with the cedar trees
In perfect synchronicity.
You know you feel the presence of the pines,
The web of the forest’s mind,
The silver threads of the slowed-down time.
Because you know you’re made of sunlight.
Here you’re lost and found and there is no hollow sound.
You learned the language they speak here,
Through pure intuition.
The evergreens are not just a home:
You know that this is where you’re from.
You know that this is where it’s quiet.
DustThis desert is a lonesome placeDust by TalkativeMute
No one walks here anymore
There used to be a traveler
Who wandered these shattered stones
He sang to the birds
And cried to the rain
But his salvation never came
The silence is a cold that kills
Those footsteps are no more
And never does the stillness break
Now that the traveler’s been turned to bones
He fell to his knees
A final plea
And the singing of the birds is gone
|Poetry, prose, and photos.|
space hungeri took the moon hostage
(i took the moon home)
sundered in lungsent young debts, sunsets
pale heart, failed start, stale art, endless
that strange sanctity in self-destruction
a holiness, a southbound train
in cracking, vasodilated veins
this moon says, my pixel resolution
is dimming, i strain so vast to see you.
this moon says, these mountains are
more effort than it is worth to be you.
this moon says, i want so badly
to be young again, muscled and vivid.
a trace, a space for a dead bird pallid
in a dead box. heartwood, not breathing.
i used to know a boy. that's
the end of the story. or: i used to
know a moon, and now she is
a girl. i told her, it's safe here, and she
believed me right up until they
sliced her up for moondust
and factory (reset). let's start
again, let's try these new tides.
let's not keep these tired eyes.
let's embrace our fumbled sides,
stop slipping out of our skins
when we go to sleep. let's up
that pixel resolution, love. let's
leave this ritual burning, love.
Snow Globeshe says, come live with me in my snow globe.
an apartment has opened up across the street.
the bats won’t mind; they keep to themselves.
I’ll whistle through my open window every morning,
and you’ll wave from your balcony.
she says, there’s a sailboat with our names painted on the side.
biology demands a writer to accompany this soulless seascape.
the deck is splattered with bird shit, yes,
but the sky is our favourite winter-white,
and how lonely can a year at sea
be, with you for company?
she says, I would miss you if you killed yourself.
this cracked pavement wasn’t meant to house
hollow bones like your own.
I say, kiss me.
she says, not yet, not yet.
|Writer. Recurve archer. Reader. Cat lover. INFJ. I have a love for forests, bookstores, indie rock and travelling. Rain is my favourite kind of weather. West coast Canadian for life.|