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Papercuts and RecollectionsI had forgotten your love letters
until they cut my finger when I
grazed the bottom of my drawer.
Folded crisp and neat,
some of the ink had smudged like
the crimson filling the whorls of my thumb.
I could hear your voice clearly,
saturated in the scrawling script.
You promised me forever,
now forever's gone.
Lost in that rush of reanimated feeling,
I could almost remember
the way your cheek felt resting
warm against my hair,
how you smelled like home.
The traces of you lingered like
the last hours of yesterday
before turning to the smell of dust
and the feel of paper too dry
to write on again.
Nevermind the WinterTrack the robins through the cloud-cover,
and tell me where they're going.
Would you follow them?
Spring rests in their talons,
and I reach for it.
I rise like the crocus,
glowing like an afternoon
of laying in the daffodils.
Find my footprints in the April mud,
because I am hope
and I follow the robin.
De-toxI told you once that
I liked my men like I liked my tea,
hot and nude,
and all you could do was
raise your eyebrows and
hope that I was thinking about you.
I had to force down the peppermint tea
and try not to think about that moment
as it both froze and scalded me--
throat, lips, and heart.
Like the you,
like the dry toast my sister made,
the mint was supposed to help me
settle and be well, but couldn't.
Four days of vomiting,
like my body rejected the idea
of being alone just as much as
my mind did.
Hundreds of hours of
and I still couldn't force you out of my system.
And when it was over,
tearing you from my being left me
a lucky thirteen pounds lighter,
unable to walk without support but
already racing in my mind.
My pulse still runs when I think of you,
but only because I'm afraid that
if I see you somewhere
I'll remember the taste of
dry toast and peppermint.
Half-Past a Different Kind of BrokenTrauma looks like my kitchen clock.
they are dead
and the second hand stutters,
I imagine every inconsequential twitch
is a plea for the freedom
it will never see again.
When its futile heart finally gives out,
I won't try to fix the timepiece
because after all its wasted sufferings,
allowing again such a disjointed tic
would be a deeper level of cruelty.
Blink and You'll Miss ItThe wind reminds me of
the empty space to my left,
which I swear you filled
only minutes ago.
But if I rested my hand
where you were sitting,
it would be just as cold as
the realization that you're gone.
Honorary Sun SpotI'm going to tie a string
around the new dawn
and make the sun my balloon.
I won't let go as it keeps rising,
I just need warmth and this seems
like the best way to find it,
the day taking me with it
round the world.
Take a picture of your rooftop,
and I'll wave as I go by.
HeavyWhen you let me go
by the side of the road,
please remember the string
that you tied to my soul.
I'm the balloon you inflated
just to let go;
the night is too cold
and I'm sinking so slowly down.
Why'd you have to cut this
the thin wire trailing
from my heartbeat to yours?
Remember the science of
the desolate sky,
because the night is too cold
and I'm sinking so slowly down.
Since When Did You Surrender?You hold your breath like
there's a knife at your throat,
and your eyes hold nothing but
stormy resignation to this end.
who murdered your spirit?
Were it a lover, a sister, a father killed,
you would run screaming through the thunder,
but you sit like a monolith in the living room.
Your heart and mind are flint;
your imagination sparks when they collide,
and I miss the blazes you created.
Whistle at my Window if You Find Your Way BackFrom your feathered hair to
the way you pursed your lips
as if they were a beak,
you were tawny like the owl.
It was midday but
it could've been the night for
how large your eyes looked
under the two o'clock sun.
We flew through the fields
to the crooked old barn,
and we sat in the hay like
we belonged there.
Our spring-time nest I called it,
and you laughed with the swallowtails
gracing the lilacs.
Somehow, you disappeared when
and when you left it was like
you took off without any hope of landing.
I make believe I hear you calling, but
it's just the wind dancing
like we would in the hollow.
AbrasionsYou cannot say your heart has stopped in your chest, because it is pounding so hard and so fast that your hands clench and unclench to its erratic tempo. So much so that your eyesight blurs and your breaths cross in many wanton attempts to succeed a normal pace. Your chest compresses and all the weight from your knees lifts you seek the floor as a companion, a burial place.
It is here all things unmend. The sweating palm is limp and the phone is unhanded. Your eyes lift. But the words are too heavy to liberate you.
Get to the hospital. There's been an accident
You see, in your mind's eye, myriad accidents, all of them begetting blood and terror. Confusion and mayhem. Loss and still water.
She's in the ER
What has your youngest sister survived? What has she witnessed? What does she now have to overcome?
Who has everyone turned into?
Nothings.It was just something that had to be done, something of the same urgency as buying a new bottle of strawberry shampoo or putting away the shopping. She wasn't good at getting things done. Other things got in the way. Nothings. She wrote a book in snippets of poetry on separate post-it notes and lost them. She played chromatics up and down the out-of-tune piano. She spun in circles on the grass by the curb side and laughed at the drivers that gave her odd looks.
"Everything okay sweetie?"
They didn't trust her because of what she'd made herself and because of what she'd done. They had given her a flat and an assistant who did the shopping and took her on some outings now and then.
The flat smelt of rotting apples, the assistant bought the wrong shampoo and she got travel sick on the outings.
Elsie nodded at the assistant. Being okay was hardly difficult when you had no other option. She fidgeted with the sleeves on her cardie as the assistant busied himself putting groceries into
AppetitionFingers search, tearing at my side,
desperate to intertwine with my ribs,
to fill spaces where yours belong,
hoping to forget the emptiness between them.
Vertebrae align, my spine wants to arc,
aching to remember the torque of your ratcheting tongue,
the way it stirred emotions I didn't want,
spelling out my desires.
Toes curl, a fist as if to proclaim,
sheets can't contain these dreams that dare to speak.
But eyes are closed because there's nothing to see;
nothing to orbit around,
no distant galaxies to lose myself in,
no black eyeliner to focus on.
The clock ticks a patient melody,
while my heart slows,
and eyes open to a dawning day,
awakening from this hunger that devours me.
Copyright © 2012 Jen Fowler
All Rights Reserved
The RefugeeI am stained the scent of mandarin
a skinned raw lumpen,
stripped to drifting bone and sea salt
leaking marrow and fear by equal measure,
human only by
some undiscovered innerness,
and all around the Alto's stern
is midnight's shaking water,
void of path and light,
it laps the boat like viscous oil,
stains the wood two eras of blood,
written by the dogma flags
of poverty and hope.
The Captain laughs,
tonight, we escoria are guided by stars,
so let them burn bright,
and I will stand the bow
tonight, a beacon, and hold
my companions tighter than
my Cuba held me,
clutching at my smokes and fraying
And when I arrive to your stars
and to your stripes,
do not be waiting, I beg,
let me slip into your room unseen,
let us never meet,
- and be us forever strangers,
and the infinite space
between all souls
keep us free.
Seared Lungs Sing SweeterSeared lungs sing sweeter,
so burn, baby, burn.
I'm a child of fire.
I yearn, how I yearn!
Don't give me flowers;
I crave gasoline.
Charm has no powers
over this machine.
My bones are matchsticks -
let's turn up the light.
It's time to transfix,
watch me spark the night.
So come, let us burn,
with no time for prayer.
We'll burn, baby, burn
with ecstatic flare.
Let us die tonight,
die a thousand deaths.
While we're burning bright
smoke will be our breaths.
Come, set a fire,
a blazing nocturne,
here in my bier,
and we'll burn, burn, burn
upon a pyre
of deep desire,
glowing like phosphor
in sweetest rapture.
Lover, come closer,
I promise you'll learn
seared lungs sing sweeter,
so burn, baby, burn.
Achromatic Dreamstoday, god gave me present.
stilted windows, white bones
decaying lungs and my mind races
at the rate of a lone moth's jaded wings
we taste better alone
clemency is earned
by the damned, by the damned
we belong to nobody
and she bowed with artless grace
kissed the sky, shed stardust tears
choked on angelic moonshine
we draw our own constellations
today, i gave god presence.
saying Sundays are never beautiful
counting fallen meteors as wishing stars. we
dream the inconsistencies of space- timid
chemistry mapped between your rough skin
and my boneless fingers, breaking outlines of isolation
in constellations, dwelling in the abodes of time lost
beneath tearless skies.
living amid painted strokes of genius, between
colors communicating to trebles and records in collective
urgency. let us crush the aftermath of our damaged
liberties, breathing the dire fumes of cremated guitar strings as
Van Gogh enters the centre of the last field, aims his cocked
gun and forms the sixth instance of forlorn
refusing to act upon the word fuck, and
completing this cycle of
Alone With a MadmanEarthly rotations, to dark and light,
and dark, like me—
listening to the ticking,
of the hands that taunt
the pulse of my heart,
as it beats,
skips a beat.
Course red blood slips,
a terrifying ride,
down arms meant to reach,
not guide the hands
that hold tools that breech,
the thin net,
of nerve-bound string,
that holds the madman in.
Copyright © 2012 Jen Fowler
All Rights Reserved
WaywardI feel so sickeningly slow
as if the air is liquefied and
every breath is swamping me
and when my feet spill onto ground
the Earth keeps turning away.
I come with nothing but hope
but find nothing but your body.
I run in search of a semblance of soul,
but all I find is silent scenery.
I stop at a blackening tombstone
uncertain where to turn.
I touch my bones and skin,
the absence of meat alarming.
Again I pound the pavement, the street
swiftly streaming by like bits
and misplaced pieces, everything else
I lost my face down by the waterfall,
staring too hard for my reflection.
I lost my heart somewhere over the Atlantic,
leaning out for a glimpse of reason,
but it was far too dark to find one
or retrieve the other.
I run, I run, I run,
but I remain
Strung OutConsider me hanging on the line,
a dress without a body waiting for the sun,
vibrant when she's not heavy, waterlogged.
As a child, I enjoyed making orange smiles,
while wondering why we didn't have
a clothesline stretching from tree to tree
like I'd seen on the television.
I admired the way skirts became birds,
picked up by the wind they adored,
while sheets grabbed the wind like a sail,
and the clouds were always made of cotton,
and the denim sat like lead.
Now every time I put myself out to dry,
the sky gets heavy and breaks on me.
I am halfway towards being ready,
and then the rain rips me down again.
Maybe that's why we bought a machine
to wring the water from our clothes,
because there was no risk of bad weather inside.
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More