Deviation Actions
Literature Text
tiny bird bones
are his ribs, delicate flower arrangement, hands splayed, or
two beautiful white wings behind a stranger’s grave
-- we can see lines of purple river coiling his fingers,
tap his knuckles, and hear faint guitar picks strum pasty flesh
like an anthem to stupidity -- his bones are hollow.
his ribs are my favorite thing about him, i used to think, said
“your ribs, they are angels meant to fly” -- “you don’t make sense”
he replied, but nothing made sense back then
or makes sense now, everyone is standing face to the mud
and we close our eyes and hold hands and jump when the next person jumps, down
means nothing, neither does ground
or angels, for that matter. he counts his white hairs
stranded in clouds, plucks feathers from doves and makes a nest with them
calls it home -- wondering, all the while, what wind might feel like
singing around his spine if he jumps, and whether i would bury
his bones behind a white grave when he does?
(yes. i did.)
gas[lit]
Midnight Air
Death Mirror
originally this was inspired by a story my psychology teacher told us about some idiot kid on PCP (aka angel dust) who thought he could fly and jumped off a five story building and became a vegetable. it didn't really come out the same way though. (incidentally, Moth-Eaten Clothes was also inspired by psychology class. sometimes a person with a damaged hypothalamus can't feel hunger and needs something/someone to help regulate their own bodily needs. ain't science inspiring.)
really, i didn't know what i was doing with this poem, so i'm super curious to see how other ppl feel about it. thanks for reading.
--enjoy.