georgia says you're never coming back
Midnight in the Park of Chiascuro

All night, the rain falling in the park after you left, I thought about chiaroscuro. That’s probably because it wasn’t quite night and the shadows played on the benches like children, in leotards and feathered pink tutus, practicing their pirouettes and future eating disorders. It didn’t matter much then, what you had said, even though my eyes felt like corporate apartment complexes. Which means they were dead ends, blocked off one way streets, an undug foxhole in my brain that shadows help make more sense of. But how to make sense of it, what to do about it, because the shadows don’t speak. 


All night, the rain was falling in the park after I left, I thought of Pavlova. I imagine wrapped ballerina feet pirouetting through the streets, worn, soft leather shoes and twirling, quivery fingers. Dusk settled on the city, draped over like a thick black curtain, nestling in tree hollows and under sewer grates. The dancers with gum drop smiles and black button eyes tempting, taunting and on my way out of Heaven’s garden, I remember you. I asked the dancers where I was going and why nothing made sense anymore, but the shadows don’t speak. 


All night, the rain falling in the park I wasn’t in after you left then I left then I wasn’t there anymore and I couldn’t think of Pavlova or Pavlov or dogs or shadows anymore it was only the light between the street and the strips of asphalt bark that kept screaming at me to go back to find something else the clue the meaning where she was in the garden or looking at pretty boys and girls with blackeyes that I could never have but attain is something one can purchase at the store but it would be the next day at Lenscrafters and I don’t know if I can wait that long Jesus Christ what is night but the sun saying fuck you to everything you did or said to her while you were waiting at the bus stop and mulling over things like a puppy dog chasing its tail. I asked the dancers where I was going, but they demanded change for another bottle of wine and I didn’t have any money. I looked to the shadows and they only smiled. 

All night, the rain falling in the park, I slept like Rip Van Winkle and when I woke, the revolution had passed and the king was gone and Wolf, all of those with wolf eyes were dead. I tried to rub it out of my eyes and vomit up the sailor’s liquor but it glossed to the linings of my stomach and only acid and water came, stinging my throat. The dancer’s taught me to be silent and they whistled for a hummingbird who caught my voice and flew far away. The dancer’s showed me with scarred pointer fingers how to expel ugly from my body  (
en pointe madamoiselle) and now, with my own button eyes sewed in, I give the tired wrong directions and ask them for change too. Once, we had a puppy dog but it kept chasing it’s own tail and getting tangled up in our ballet laces and making our long, pale legs trip. One of the girl’s weaved florals into her teeth  but the other’s didn’t like the smell and they ripped out her button eyes and she was blind and silent and sometimes, I blink and see wolves where there should be dolls. I look to the shadows and they only smiled. 

All night the rain falling in the park where I decided to sleep after leaving, I was covered with newspapers and self-loathing and lumps in the my throat. My wolf eyes never left. I never needed liquor, but it could have been helpful then. I might have had the courage to show up at your door dressed like I could move without thinking and explain to you how much I loved you and that everything I had said or done was wrong and that I knew I had to be new, to ever know you like someone should know another person if they really cared beyond the grey contact lenses. And that I’d help show you how to vomit proper even if it was to shrink your waistline. I understood the black and white reasoning behind putting an icepack on your fallen lover’s back and another washcloth over it and then a light blanket on top because things get cold here, things get really cold in these places And I’d massage the small of your back because that is the center of this tension: the small things in the back. But you would’ve woken up with the cold sewn into your eyes and a saccharine smile, rotting, that would say stay but smell of get out. Then I’d see the shadow and I’d see you, arms crossed, hand over the mouth, straining not to collapse in incredulity at the realness of now and then shaking its head with some obtuse sympathy - too late son, too late. The music’s over. 

 All night, the rain falling in the park, I noticed the now now now and how everyone, the dancers, the wolves, even our little puppy dog wanted to brand and possess and own, piss on the fire hydrant or the dancers or the tired who cover themselves with newspapers and sleep with regret stuck in their throats (it’s bittersweet isn’t it, to love and lose). The rain slips and slides and washes away things that should have been forgotten I have carefully unsewn the stitches in my eyes and threw the buttons in the gutter; I have licked away my gum drop lips and swallowed the hummingbird whole, redeeming not my voice but a new, throatier, duskier one. I have seen the shadows and now I know that they don’t smile, but grimace.

 
All night, the rain fell in the park and I met a shadow. 

-

collab with infinitesplinters.

1 year ago | 17 notes
Midnight in the Park of Chiascuro

All night, the rain falling in the park after you left, I thought about chiaroscuro. That’s probably because it wasn’t quite night and the shadows played on the benches like children, in leotards and feathered pink tutus, practicing their pirouettes and future eating disorders. It didn’t matter much then, what you had said, even though my eyes felt like corporate apartment complexes. Which means they were dead ends, blocked off one way streets, an undug foxhole in my brain that shadows help make more sense of. But how to make sense of it, what to do about it, because the shadows don’t speak. 

All night, the rain was falling in the park after I left, I thought of Pavlova. I imagine wrapped ballerina feet pirouetting through the streets, worn, soft leather shoes and twirling, quivery fingers. Dusk settled on the city, draped over like a thick black curtain, nestling in tree hollows and under sewer grates. The dancers with gum drop smiles and black button eyes tempting, taunting and on my way out of Heaven’s garden, I remember you. I asked the dancers where I was going and why nothing made sense anymore, but the shadows don’t speak. 


All night, the rain falling in the park I wasn’t in after you left then I left then I wasn’t there anymore and I couldn’t think of Pavlova or Pavlov or dogs or shadows anymore it was only the light between the street and the strips of asphalt bark that kept screaming at me to go back to find something else the clue the meaning where she was in the garden or looking at pretty boys and girls with blackeyes that I could never have but attain is something one can purchase at the store but it would be the next day at Lenscrafters and I don’t know if I can wait that long Jesus Christ what is night but the sun saying fuck you to everything you did or said to her while you were waiting at the bus stop and mulling over things like a puppy dog chasing its tail. I asked the dancers where I was going, but they demanded change for another bottle of wine and I didn’t have any money. I looked to the shadows and they only smiled. 

All night, the rain falling in the park, I slept like Rip Van Winkle and when I woke, the revolution had passed and the king was gone and Wolf, all of those with wolf eyes were dead. I tried to rub it out of my eyes and vomit up the sailor’s liquor but it glossed to the linings of my stomach and only acid and water came, stinging my throat. The dancer’s taught me to be silent and they whistled for a hummingbird who caught my voice and flew far away. The dancer’s showed me with scarred pointer fingers how to expel ugly from my body  (
en pointe madamoiselle) and now, with my own button eyes sewed in, I give the tired wrong directions and ask them for change too. Once, we had a puppy dog but it kept chasing it’s own tail and getting tangled up in our ballet laces and making our long, pale legs trip. One of the girl’s weaved florals into her teeth  but the other’s didn’t like the smell and they ripped out her button eyes and she was blind and silent and sometimes, I blink and see wolves where there should be dolls. I look to the shadows and they only smiled. 

All night the rain falling in the park where I decided to sleep after leaving, I was covered with newspapers and self-loathing and lumps in the my throat. My wolf eyes never left. I never needed liquor, but it could have been helpful then. I might have had the courage to show up at your door dressed like I could move without thinking and explain to you how much I loved you and that everything I had said or done was wrong and that I knew I had to be new, to ever know you like someone should know another person if they really cared beyond the grey contact lenses. And that I’d help show you how to vomit proper even if it was to shrink your waistline. I understood the black and white reasoning behind putting an icepack on your fallen lover’s back and another washcloth over it and then a light blanket on top because things get cold here, things get really cold in these places And I’d massage the small of your back because that is the center of this tension: the small things in the back. But you would’ve woken up with the cold sewn into your eyes and a saccharine smile, rotting, that would say stay but smell of get out. Then I’d see the shadow and I’d see you, arms crossed, hand over the mouth, straining not to collapse in incredulity at the realness of now and then shaking its head with some obtuse sympathy - too late son, too late. The music’s over. 

 All night, the rain falling in the park, I noticed the now now now and how everyone, the dancers, the wolves, even our little puppy dog wanted to brand and possess and own, piss on the fire hydrant or the dancers or the tired who cover themselves with newspapers and sleep with regret stuck in their throats (it’s bittersweet isn’t it, to love and lose). The rain slips and slides and washes away things that should have been forgotten I have carefully unsewn the stitches in my eyes and threw the buttons in the gutter; I have licked away my gum drop lips and swallowed the hummingbird whole, redeeming not my voice but a new, throatier, duskier one. I have seen the shadows and now I know that they don’t smile, but grimace.

 
All night, the rain fell in the park and I met a shadow. 

-

collab with infinitesplinters.

1 year ago | 17 notes
the weight of my past

Ghosts weigh down my sleep.
Some people call them memories recalled
in the depth of un-day, undulating 
my body in its watery bed, the dark form 
in the corner of my room. It doesn’t
frighten me, it doesn’t wear a rabbit suit,
but it stares me invisible until and while
I sleep.
                     It makes me ghost.
Unanchored, I float to your eye sockets
in search of refracted light within your reminisce.
The drowned Mediterranean sailor, searching
for his gold teeth so that he might again smile
and feel some anchor to his feverish grief.
A fading phoenix caged by oval chains
underneath the surface of belief
like a watery unlit cigarette which bleeds
but to bleed would mean to leave.

I find mixed messages and oxymorons 
shallowly lapping in the depth of your mind
and I see that you’ve stared wide eyed 
at the sun for much too long and now, 
supernovas collapse on the back of your eyelids.
They cloud your sight and you only see through
a film, a different lens than I. 

I am abnormal, an aberration because when you sleep,
you see stars and I see men driven mad by the haunting vocals
of thin-lipped sirens. They anchor themselves 
deep to the ocean floor with jagged rocks braided 
to their necks by a sailor’s noose, thick roped 
and knotted tight so they can dive faithfully
into the sea, sinking, searching for something
that isn’t there.

I am more 
of a ghost now than I’ve ever 
been before.

Maybe so, just remember
that was me you saw, now as the sun wavers
distantly above in the grave freedom. 
My thoughts anchored to this
where below is forever, the pool of reflection 
the damned must writhe and stare into,
enduring the words the Ocean Echo sings,
seaweed haired horror,
with no knife to silence the lies.
Sartre spoke correct.
                             Hell, 
other people, is hearing the ghost
anchored to your flailing, fallen.
sand sunken shell.

There are stories whispered at dusk
by the cathead where the anchors, 
all the flukes in the ship (in our lives), 
are secured. Stories of men, ghosts 
who drag themselves over the murky 
ocean floor, with eyes wide shut
pursuing their voices, stolen, plucked 
out of their throats by a giggling siren
who serenades just out of 
reach.

I think I lost my voice
the first time you saw stars.

My story is buried now, the starlight
glimmers cannot reach the serenades
or the whispers of men who have words
worth listening to. All I have left are jangles
and lidless moans, it would be a cacophony
but my anchor lies alone, chuckling at me
with every mote of rust crawling across
its back. I mouth Coleridge to myself
to the sleep that will never come, but
I do see some stars, the creatures intrigued
by a wisping wallowing wight
shining in the sea.
The Shining of all the souls
trapped by the anchors
that they can
or cannot
see.

collaboration with the talented infinitesplinters.

1 year ago | 57 notes
Anonymous: what are some of your newest favorite writing blogs?

well, i’m pretty new myself but i’d have to say augustwinds, everythingiscopacetic, goodmorning-spider, infinitesplinters, oxytocin-ivabattoirr and thediamondsinlucyssky have to be my newest favorites.

1 year ago | 8 notes
Cowardice Arrogance Ignorance


read this.


infinitesplinters
:

“heres a secret that all these anons don’t want to tell you: you write shit poetry, it’s all basically prose with line breaks.”
- Anon @ wildflowerveins


wildflowerveins response:

guess what mother
fucker this is a poem
do you know why this is a poem
because i said so la la random line
break la la i write poetry la la look at my
s
o
c
k
s
.
metrocard.

Me:
Here’s the secret that you don’t want to tell yourself anon and why tumblr, and the modern internet-gasm world, might become shit. You’re a fucking coward. You don’t say your name. You hide behind a veil. You want my picture, my address, my phone number, my social security #? Come find me. I won’t put my phone number up because you’re obviously a worthless troll and I’m being trolled and I don’t give a fuck because this has been on my mind.

Will Holland
3777 Peachtree Hills Rd NE Unit D
Atlanta, GA 30319

Here’s another secret for all you anons and non-anons: stop writing about your fucking day, your fucking trip to the store, what you’re eating, this is not facebook, this is not twitter, this should be something better than the non-stop drivel of self-promoting whoredom which we all are and become but Jesus Christ do it in front of your friends who will mock you and you might feel something at least. These plastic keyboards and pixels don’t mean shit. It’s the feeling behind them, your personal - their personal meaning, so fuck you. Don’t whine about your life. Someone wiser than me, I thinking a certain Buddha or a Dalai Lama, would say that everyone’s experience is different, everyone’s pain is pain and one cannot compare the pain of say, teenage heartbreak, to, say, being raped consistently at 9. And I agree, but I’m not that enlightened yet. I am not to judge, but here’s to judging. I’ve worked with traumatized individuals in a mental health setting for two years now, everyday, hearing their stories, things people have never told anyone. And it wasn’t on the fucking internet. Not my daddy didn’t love me, but, my daddy got arrested and my brother raped me and then my I tried to kill myself repeatedly and did one time but they brought me back. And this is face to face, you know, real life? Not behind some anonymous fuck shit even it say’s Anonymous or infinitesplinters - same mask, different moniker. So stop acting like you’re so fucking important. Cherish your life. Be glad you didn’t see your mom beaten so badly one side of her head caved in and one day she couldn’t stand it so she took her shotgun and blasted him in his face in front of her children. Be glad the cigarette burns on your arm are self inflicted, not done by your dad at 15 because of this, that, or the other. Enjoy the beauty because there is a lot of darkness out there and you contrive to force it upon others. And I know wildflowerveins doesn’t give a shit, this is for me, and I’m trying to give you some real life advice shithead. What you do on the internet echoes in your “real” life, whatever that might be. So. Revel is the company of people trying to grow, flawed, like you. Be happy you weren’t raped, urinated on, and made to press your face to the mattress the piss was stained every time thereafter. Fucking Bourgeois shit makes me want to own a gun, I swear. Cocked, loaded, safety off last my last client said. Appreciate each day. Appreciate you weren’t raised in crime infested neighborhoods and got hooked on crack at 11. Raise your fucking game man. Get drunk, have fun, this thing is short. I hope you don’t get run over by a bus tomorrow, because you could and I’ve seen the survivors at my hospital, I hope you don’t because I hope you learn and become a better person. That’s all we have: hope. And the more we get sucked into this instant gratification, meme-infested, more-prettier-most-now-better-one-up-status-update-dashboard-clicking-like-like-coz-if-i-like-they-like-me bullshit we drift further and further away from ourselves. Stop posting your kitschy little fuckshit. Post art. Go on 4chan for that shit or get the fuck out and go on facebook and sit on it and rotate. But yeah, call out bloggers you think are dope. Give props. Make suggestions, constructive criticism, you know that shit? Unless you’re Joyce, Faulkner, Hemingway, Beckett, Proust, Nabakov, Murakami, cummings, Frost, Eliot, Pound, WC Williams, Plath, Emerson, Stein, Morrison, Hesse, Nietzsche, Hawthorne, Marquez, Borges, Fitzgerald, Thoreau, Pessoa, Rilke, Ellison, Whitman, Burroughs, Gide, Vargas Llosa, Tolstoy, Fuentes, Gibran, Dostoyevsky, or some other mother fucker (I could go on for goddamn forever, but you aren’t on that list) with some chops and the work to prove it then:::
Shut the fuck up and stop projecting your insecurities. Because no one cares. It’s the fucking internet. Fuck.

Nah, this is too good. Favorite post on tumblr ever. 

1 year ago | 20 notes

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