• spyrl

Consulation of existance through the aesthetics of the word.

Amber hues ignited in brilliant flashes of sunset oranges and reds, glinting and glimmering and burning, dancing along the icy current and spilling onto the sand. She met our father sky in time, conjoined at the fringe of the horizon; the hem of the skirt of the world. He danced with her, swells of whispery streaks of whites and greys reflecting upon her rippling surface, his breath quick to stir her to a frenzy. Upon the grainy outer reaches, the man was chilled by icy fingertips, playing amongst raven locks and weaving them to scattered clumps. Her salty scent enveloped him, coating his pale form. Deep orbs of midnight black flickered with the glow of life, shadowed only by lush lashes that brushed cheekbones as they fluttered, opening, awakening, and it was not this world of dancing shadows and lingering colors and contrasts that he saw, but a world beyond the threshold of the mind, the world in which a soul lingers only for flecks of time that are as forgotten as the calm, cool wind. Slender fingers curled, leaving imprints in the sand, a too broken, beaten, struggling body livid with the essense of survival slowly curling within itself before expanding, an explosion of luscious flesh. He stretched languidly, rising, salt water skin glinting against the remnants of the burning sun, denying it's touch but to mirror it's own light. And he was beautiful, this porcelain thing, this lonesome doll who'd suffered so greatly, drifting outside the framework of social mentality. Social state. Social realism. Imbued with existance, he subsisted, long limbs pressed to move in an automated trance, robotic machinery of organic creation. Feet awashed with the ocean's kiss, loving and cold and bitter and intoxicating. A deadly romance, this affair with the sea. But she'd had her fill, she'd played with her toy, her love, her butterfly of the outerworld, and father sky lashed in jealousy, for none could compare to the magnificent beauty this being held within and out, his cruel screams flashing electric streaks of ultrawhite hands, reaching across the plains, untaunted by the return of the sea's sweet song. This man would not be taken by the clutches of the sky, nor earth, nor sea, his violent love too potent, the world too addicted to his existance. He would continue, footsteps leaving temporary memories within the sand, only to be washed away in secret desire as the waters ached for his return, one day, one more time, another dance in the fiery sunset waves.
yesterday I woke up sucking a lemon

a 'nother poem; since we last spoke

Which is, ultimately, never, seeing as this is the internet. But I digress.

Read this and comment if it pleases you:

No Vacancy

The cardinal misfortune was not
the misuse of rare oils
and stretchy plastics
as near as it was the
sticky, well-adjusted
florescents on the ceiling.
Pacing in cold boredom with
marked disinterest - a swagger
from unpronounced, dislocated footholds
and a separateness from the obtrusive lighting.
The headache, incurable by pill or body contact,
sinks into the spinal cord;
arching its way to release with the
flick of a switch as imagination
protrudes and declines intermittently,
privately mocking the schedule that
began the walk into responsible latency;
celibate from the white-noise over head.
She is her contradiction:
the shadow on the floor -
high noon in her bed.
yesterday I woke up sucking a lemon

a 'nother poem; since we last spoke

Which is, ultimately, never, seeing as this is the internet. But I digress.

Read this and comment if it pleases you:

No Vacancy

The cardinal misfortune was not
the misuse of rare oils
and stretchy plastics
as near as it was the
sticky, well-adjusted
florescents on the ceiling.
Pacing in cold bordeom with
marked disinterest - a swagger
from unpronounced, dislocated footholds
and a separateness from the obtrusive lighting.
The headache, incurable by pill or body contact,
sinks into the spinal cord;
arching its way to release with the
flick of a switch as imagination
protrudes and declines intermittendly,
privately mocking the schedule that
began the walk into responsible latency;
celebate from the white-noise over head.
She is her contradiction:
the shadow on the floor -
high noon in her bed.
fresh start

(no subject)

Hi. My name is Sofia, and I just joined. I've been searching around for a while for a community where I could share what I've written and have it be critiqued by other writers. And, given that I have about five mugs within reach and that I'm utterly addicted to tea, this seemed the perfect community to join. I thank you for existing.

And with that, here I go:

The Triplets

She has a secret. It’s not a very big one in the grand scheme of things, but even little ones are hard to keep when you’re a triplet. Victoria has a secret, and she’s proud that no one’s found out. Her little body shakes with glee when she’s very nearly caught, mother’s makeup and pantyhose, her sister’s bra strapped around her own, more fragile body. Victoria is the youngest by seven minutes and the world changed a lot between her sisters’ births and her own. She is the smallest, her body grows and changes the slowest, and in all of their pictures she is the saddest. Sarah, the eldest, is always taken as an older sister, as not even part of the same pregnancy, and Hera, the middle child, is the prodigy pianist. And little Victoria, who is only known for being little. But late at night she sneaks into the bathroom and becomes an new person. Sexy and adult, she states at herself in the mirror, willing the change to stay after she has exited her small sanctuary and gone back to the identical beds with the identical blankets and her identical sisters. They are triplets, but the seconds between their births have served to change them, leave different marks on each young face. And little Victoria has a secret, a thing distinctly hard to keep when you’re a triplet, and it sets her apart, if only for those seven minutes.
in your face

(no subject)

Hi. This is improvised, but wanting to contribute. Sorry if it's a bit shabby.

accompanying the scattered straws to my heart, head and dreams
numbed yet sober, the believer and slave of battered beats and tones
less the feel and felt but better, the bruises of another day's done
left to fly and right to dive in the chains of chosen suns
lift the wrist and flick to a twist the kiss to the skin of this drum.