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These are poetry drafts. I consider all my poetry in a constant state of drafting, some with revision ongoing, others merely gathering dust. Some have been published but will still be considered drafts.

N.B. When these posts were imported I noticed some of my reblogs also got pulled in. It should be ovious from the contents that they are reblogs from other writers. I am in the process of removing those posts.

Shopping — online

By - 
Satan went shopping, online , with little knowledge of the state of affairs in the frozen fridge department.

Satan went shopping, online, ticking most of the square boxes from previous perilous purchases, keeping the new snake suggestions an option for a later date.

Satan went shopping, online, expecting a swift delivery but had to consent to dreary days of waiting, days without liquid fires bottled.

Satan went shopping, online, and waited in anguish for the delivery man to arrive, to quench the thirst for every birth unexpected.

Satan went shopping, online, only to find the delivery man delivering too much for the frozen fridge to swallow, too much for the fucking square peg to fit in the round hole, too much for the writer in anguish to cope with.

Satan went shopping, online, while the writer sought peace among the vegetables not fitting, sought a piece of broccoli withering, then

died.

Neujahrsvorsätze

By -

doktor-disko:

Das Jahr neigt sich dem Anfang zu,

der Regen sich der Erde

und ich mich wieder einmal der

Frage, was draus werde.

~

Ein neues Jahr mit neuen Chancen,

dieselbe Sternenbahn

auf der wir dann am Neujahrstag

im Kreise weiterfahr’n.

~

Ein neues Jahr, dieselben Dinge,

die Probleme bringen –

können wir im neuen Jahr

uns’ren Schweinehund bezwingen?

~

Oder greift wie jedes Jahr

die Februarlethargie,

wir schwächeln und wir geben auf

und wir schaffen’s nie?

—

Doktor Disko                         (2020-12-28)

There’s something magical about not fully grasping every word… not seeing the whole picture… yet enough to say: yes, I get it, I am connected, there’s history here and I with you on your journey,

don’t worry, February is as short as ever 💜

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By -

faceless-eyes:

Maybe life was not made for someone like me. After all, not all people have a home, a job, or a family. So why can’t this also apply to my life? Maybe life was not made for me…

Life’s not made, it is… take away a home , a job , a family, what’s left ? The thoughts within… a keyboard and a tumblr waiting for your writing.. a world waiting for your creations … just breathe in — then out, and keep on typing 💜

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By - 
The resemblance uncanny; her face there in front of me like a mirror of my first love, the Sheila I once bedded, the jaws of the past here unveiled. The Lyra Silver-tongued, grasping, pulling at my heart string, as I search for the coordinates to the temple of stow, to the junction of departure, and the pool so cold

Wings Wavering

By - 
Farewell my dove / my rusty scythe in your trembling moonlight / rustic charm against innocent skin / the gentle strokes down the feathers / down the residual tensions until … / you snap / you crack / you waver / farewell my dove / farewell

December Dog

By - 
Our lady of
                 daffodils,
the highs and the
      lows,
we speak no longer
                 of
                 matters
born outside of reality;
                       of
                       matters
relating to cats &
                      gnomes;
of the beastly things
                                                we did
back when the grass was
still green / still mowed
                            weekly by a
hired gun
                                                uncapped•


We rest on the sancta terra, firmly grounded 
between life and the
                              calling.


Our lady of
                 daffodils,


She roams


                       between
                      the origins of


Storms & a seltered child


                                   Crying

I Brand You Witch

By - 
I brand you witch / the iron rests in my gutted embers / in a fire of known origin / in a source of doubt and new beginnings / your skin once pure soon tarnished / our dreams of a seventh heaven scattered / collected mail & unposted airways / I brand you witch : wood worm and treeless

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By -

smakkabagms:

the crow’s canticle hollowing out the cruel dark wet grass of me
november hills are run with wolves, the orphanhood of a woman-body

I have hung the starry pelts above the flame, I have hunted my own otherness
Artemis-pale in the autumn woods, flaxen over cronelike cults of water

I have parted my lips where the moon meets with wine-red sea, froth
and annihilation; a thin blue thread I have parted and dispersed into nowhere’s illusion

to say the unsayable; the sad, child longing to be beautiful; the long dizzy
silk dream that is ever unreconciled – things I cannot admit to being mine

who I have been – or am – as myself: the one who holds her tongue
and waits for words to die

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By -

smakkabagms:

night’s dream stains a star-touched, blue feather
  near the silo of my gathered hand; her,

on the cloven hooves of dawn, ear stilled near
the pulsing raven plinth, neck or dandelion

howls rove the mist-thick woad, recalling
with the terror of flesh the wool of another

colors once loved, now colored dully elsewhere –
a poppy nodding a red-heavy head, lips languished

I pry mud-spangled fingertips over the indifferent
reign of tides, mimetic animals sloughing sideways where

night has emptied her entrails into the crook of my arm,
where I once held the sea, slipped from cerement’s scythe
                           
and moonborne dew; earthen, wax-drawn figure
I bring you to my hidden room and speak
this yellow nothing

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