My name is Katy.
And this photo is really old.
Current Residence: California.
word vomit.and the skyscrapers, the towers, the cityword vomit. by katypi
will crumble, will fall
the wave of a thousand sighs of
nostalgia, hope, tragedy,
fear and some loathing (but not in, no, never in Las Vegas)
crashes over the post-traumatic stress
disorganization of the masses
and what was false is false
and what was true is true, always true
the gods of fire rain down on the gods
of ego who plead with the goddesses of objectification
and they continue to play scrabble.
a not quite eerie calm is pulled out from
the roots of buildings and the basements of trees,
is trailed along the i-beams
and latticework that assisted in
mutually assured construction of
anything but love and all other abstract
ideas - but what ideas are concrete? - that
poems such as this
conveniently and normally end with.
The Thing About ClichesI.The Thing About Cliches by summernightangel
If this were a cliché,
A poem, or both
It would be about sparkling midnight skies and heartbeats and flowers and sex.
There would be oceanic eyes and rain that tastes like tears. Well throw in anxiety-riddled murmurs and metaphorical bullets and allusions to sharp objects for pity.
This is not a cliché anymore.
So instead I wrote about the flavor of emerald and the fragrance of April hope. I painted pictures of a perfect pencil, poised over a blank page.
If this were a romance,
A message in a bottle, or both
It would still be cliché, to capture electric fingers and longings locked away with skeleton keys, and drugs.
Wed find footprints in the sand and read angels into them. Wed collect rejected roses, tarnished rings, and hopeful held breaths where the tides washed them up, tie them up with ribbon, and cork it all away for someone else to worry about.
This is not a romance either.
So instead I baked coffee cake while it rained, and picked the wee