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Literature Text
There is power here.
I feel it coursing through my veins, pooling in my joints.
Embroidering my irises with its frozen fire.
Violin strings and Gregorian hymns lift the potential in this mane of hair,
the cello is a lullaby resounding.
Music is sometimes the only way for me to articulate the butterflies valiantly flapping in my throat.
Something about the endless heartbeat of the drum
the pulse of the world and of my mothers
and my sisters
and those who came before me.
Endless.
It is the rhythm of our feet, one dogged step after another.
When I walked the desert, dust in my ears, in my mouth and in my eyes I knew this drumbeat, I knew this rhythm.
When the nomads banished me from the camp for bleeding, I knew this rhythm.
When I rose against the walls of Jericho, I knew this rhythm.
When I pulled down Babel, I knew this rhythm.
When I was cast from Eden, I knew this rhythm.
Do not stand there in the face of my flesh and deny me goddess.
Do not stand before me and be unable to bear my being.
Do not look at the rolling of my hips and the proud jut of my jaw and tell me no.
This body was carved with every chalk handprint,
with every sigh from my lips,
with every scar and every freckle,
with every kilo and every calloused finger.
This body was carved from magic and from moonlight and from blood and from the stones of altars raised to gods whose names you have long forgotten.
It is made of sycamore and elm,
of yew and ash,
of oak and birch.
Of stained glass and old habits,
Red wine entrails and acorns in the pit of your stomach,
Sweet meat come to tempt the hands of Adam.
I was conceived in the sand of the barren beaches
Under moonlight slick and visceral
Between the gaps in the opera seats
And in the dust of actors’ raiment
Gilded and fading
Like the hair on the head of John the Baptist.
I was birthed in the space between comfort and restlessness
You know me of old
I am a sharpened sword, cleaving your consciousness
My heart is violent
My soul is wild.
I am longing for my country, unbridled landscapes stern in the face
of your Kings, your knights and your steel.
Vanquished now to the dogma of man.
It makes my spirit weep.
I feel it coursing through my veins, pooling in my joints.
Embroidering my irises with its frozen fire.
Violin strings and Gregorian hymns lift the potential in this mane of hair,
the cello is a lullaby resounding.
Music is sometimes the only way for me to articulate the butterflies valiantly flapping in my throat.
Something about the endless heartbeat of the drum
the pulse of the world and of my mothers
and my sisters
and those who came before me.
Endless.
It is the rhythm of our feet, one dogged step after another.
When I walked the desert, dust in my ears, in my mouth and in my eyes I knew this drumbeat, I knew this rhythm.
When the nomads banished me from the camp for bleeding, I knew this rhythm.
When I rose against the walls of Jericho, I knew this rhythm.
When I pulled down Babel, I knew this rhythm.
When I was cast from Eden, I knew this rhythm.
Do not stand there in the face of my flesh and deny me goddess.
Do not stand before me and be unable to bear my being.
Do not look at the rolling of my hips and the proud jut of my jaw and tell me no.
This body was carved with every chalk handprint,
with every sigh from my lips,
with every scar and every freckle,
with every kilo and every calloused finger.
This body was carved from magic and from moonlight and from blood and from the stones of altars raised to gods whose names you have long forgotten.
It is made of sycamore and elm,
of yew and ash,
of oak and birch.
Of stained glass and old habits,
Red wine entrails and acorns in the pit of your stomach,
Sweet meat come to tempt the hands of Adam.
I was conceived in the sand of the barren beaches
Under moonlight slick and visceral
Between the gaps in the opera seats
And in the dust of actors’ raiment
Gilded and fading
Like the hair on the head of John the Baptist.
I was birthed in the space between comfort and restlessness
You know me of old
I am a sharpened sword, cleaving your consciousness
My heart is violent
My soul is wild.
I am longing for my country, unbridled landscapes stern in the face
of your Kings, your knights and your steel.
Vanquished now to the dogma of man.
It makes my spirit weep.
Literature
apocryphal
so cunning and seemingly honest
at times there is nothing but wit
yet not quite real on the inside
but nothing we care to admit
Literature
Nocte
Hiding from the beast,
From tree to tree,
Running in the dark,
I tell myself such things,
Slow- so it won't find you,
Breath.
These fires have scorched far and wide,
Leaving the scent of my former cinders to linger in my head,
Like some bad bender,
Warped memories encircling grey,
The ground is made of shattered glass,
Broken dreams.
No lilies remain,
To any kingdom I run,
In mirrors of liquid glass,
Surrealist battles are won,
And like fear,
The spider crawled from my mouth.
They are sedating everything,
Brush pixilated,
Focus changing,
Leaving me to run in the dark,
Caught in the eye of the storm,
Hiding in the calm.
Literature
On Writing
all the words
all the senses
all the dirt and smell and roughness
the bursting heart
fresh cold water
CRASH of waves and then the ache within
trickling nothing tears and itching legs
all these things
someone wrote them, a bit.
How can you tell anyone
else? How can you thrust
the living today
into someone else's soul?
This is just a nut in a banana leaf.
I blame Saltillo.
© 2014 - 2024 Llywenlla
Comments4
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I love the line "this body was carved from magic and moonlight...."