Her Consonants And Vowels Disturb Me
Apr 29, 2014 1:59:29 GMT -5
LonelyForsaken, twistedangel, and 1 more like this
Post by Aish on Apr 29, 2014 1:59:29 GMT -5
v.2
Often late, and trailing along
behind the tail of the sun
I catch whispered ghosts of the old womans sighs.
She rasps disdain and dentures
against the hasp of her mouth
damning me with the currency of her age;
shadows of a previous generation
threadbare as her cotton shift.
My mouth and brains are empty
as the glass jar sitting half-full on her counter.
When she spreads her toast with honey
I can't help but wonder if she scolded the bees
while plundering their golden vomit for her morning meal.
I frame her with my forefinger and thumb,
trying to imagine her as young and malleable
or open to new ideas and the excitement of adventure.
I fail. So I pinch her head
and watch it expand again, giggling to myself.
Her corrugated smile irons out in a grin
from time to time if I ask the proper questions.
As I watch her, sipping chicory in her chosen element
I realize the sunbeam doesn't warm her hands,
instead it seems to run away from them faster
than daylights natural progression.
Her skin has bloomed with dark fruit,
and torn again without her noticing.
I tell myself this is not my future.
I will not crochet others into knots for being themselves
or stop driving at night. But how many promises
can be kept? Right now my self-perception
screams all day I am not old, not fusty, not obsolete -
but what happens when honey in my jar is better than whiskey,
and my rituals are hard as stone?
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
v.1
Often late, and trailing along
behind the tail of the sun
I catch whispered ghosts of the old womans sighs.
She rasps disdain and dentures
against the hasp of her mouth
damning me with the currency of her age;
faded conventions of a previous generation
threadbare as her cotton shift.
My mouth and brains are empty
as the Mason jar sitting half-full on her counter.
When she spreads her toast with honey
I can't help but wonder if she scolded the bees
while plundering their golden vomit for her morning meal.
I frame her with my forefinger and thumb,
trying to imagine her as young and malleable
or open to new ideas and the excitement of adventure.
I fail. So I pinch her head
and watch it expand again, giggling to myself.
Her corrugated smile irons out in a grin
from time to time if I ask the proper questions.
As I watch her, sipping chicory in her chosen element
I realize the sunbeam doesn't warm her hands,
instead it seems to run away from them faster
than the daylights natural progression.
Her skin has bloomed with dark fruit,
and torn again without her noticing.
I tell myself this is not my future.
I will not crochet others into knots for being themselves
or stop driving at night. But how many promises
can be kept? Right now my self-perception
screams all day I am not old, not fusty, not obsolete -
but what happens when honey in my jar is better than whiskey,
and my rituals are hard as stone?
Often late, and trailing along
behind the tail of the sun
I catch whispered ghosts of the old womans sighs.
She rasps disdain and dentures
against the hasp of her mouth
damning me with the currency of her age;
shadows of a previous generation
threadbare as her cotton shift.
My mouth and brains are empty
as the glass jar sitting half-full on her counter.
When she spreads her toast with honey
I can't help but wonder if she scolded the bees
while plundering their golden vomit for her morning meal.
I frame her with my forefinger and thumb,
trying to imagine her as young and malleable
or open to new ideas and the excitement of adventure.
I fail. So I pinch her head
and watch it expand again, giggling to myself.
Her corrugated smile irons out in a grin
from time to time if I ask the proper questions.
As I watch her, sipping chicory in her chosen element
I realize the sunbeam doesn't warm her hands,
instead it seems to run away from them faster
than daylights natural progression.
Her skin has bloomed with dark fruit,
and torn again without her noticing.
I tell myself this is not my future.
I will not crochet others into knots for being themselves
or stop driving at night. But how many promises
can be kept? Right now my self-perception
screams all day I am not old, not fusty, not obsolete -
but what happens when honey in my jar is better than whiskey,
and my rituals are hard as stone?
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
v.1
Often late, and trailing along
behind the tail of the sun
I catch whispered ghosts of the old womans sighs.
She rasps disdain and dentures
against the hasp of her mouth
damning me with the currency of her age;
faded conventions of a previous generation
threadbare as her cotton shift.
My mouth and brains are empty
as the Mason jar sitting half-full on her counter.
When she spreads her toast with honey
I can't help but wonder if she scolded the bees
while plundering their golden vomit for her morning meal.
I frame her with my forefinger and thumb,
trying to imagine her as young and malleable
or open to new ideas and the excitement of adventure.
I fail. So I pinch her head
and watch it expand again, giggling to myself.
Her corrugated smile irons out in a grin
from time to time if I ask the proper questions.
As I watch her, sipping chicory in her chosen element
I realize the sunbeam doesn't warm her hands,
instead it seems to run away from them faster
than the daylights natural progression.
Her skin has bloomed with dark fruit,
and torn again without her noticing.
I tell myself this is not my future.
I will not crochet others into knots for being themselves
or stop driving at night. But how many promises
can be kept? Right now my self-perception
screams all day I am not old, not fusty, not obsolete -
but what happens when honey in my jar is better than whiskey,
and my rituals are hard as stone?