I pump in ink

I am a poetry chick

I pump in ink.

Like the Egyptians and their papyrus

I tattoo your skin.

My spit

Covers you,

Bathes you,

Warms you,

Conforts you,

Saves you,

Blankets you.

My spit is my word,

My love for you.

I'm a lyric girl as

You know

I am a poetry chick.

You can come with me in

My mouth

Warm and deep

Like three syllable words

Are Moist

And they spit

At you.

Inside of you,

It erupts.

Like a melodic volcano that

Caresses you in a way

Which makes you

UNCOMFORTABLE.

I'm a poetry chick,

Find me a rooster to lay.

Find those eggs full of

WISDOM

And brake the shells.

Slippery,

A zero calorie home,

Transparent and full,

You are a bubble girl, my friend.

There is room for you under my membrane.

A.

Back yard

She decided she wasn't feeling well.

She left.

He left holding her hand and she

Felt the tight grasp was cutting the air.

It was a normal routine,

Choreographed dynamics.

Maybe she had drunk too much

Or maybe that corpse under their bed had

Started to rot

To smell so strong that had

Been all

Inhaled by her. She was breathing in death.

They didn't know who it was, as

They just found the body in their back yard.

She wanted to call the police but

He decided they should keep it.

It'll be safer with us.

Where can we put it?

Under the bed, it's too tall to try to make it sit in a closet

And our clothes will smell.

Late at night, she imagined a soft,

Soft breathing in

And breathing out...

She had stopped sleeping,

It reeks in here, please, let's just throw it away.

You can't just dump a corpse,

Are you crazy?

You are crazy, you are fucking bonkers.

I don't know how we even thought saving a corpse from

Its natural rotting life was ever a good idea.

I like how it smells, it breathes life into me.

Don't you think?

I can't sleep. I'm not feeling well.

I wan't to go.

And there was no going anywhere. She had already gone.

She was lying under the bed. Breathing in

Breathing out.

A

Damien's Accidental Babies

Sometimes I feel there is no need to paraphrase. Sometimes, some people, say it all. And they say it well. Like Mr Rice:

"I held you like a lover.
Happy hands and

Your elbow in the appropriate place.

And we ignored our others,

Happy plans
For that delicate look upon your face.

Our bodies moved and hardened;
Hurting parts of your garden,
With no room for a pardon
In a place where no one knows

What we have done.

Do you come together ever with him?

And is he dark enough?
Enough to see your light?

And do you brush your teeth before you kiss?
Do you miss my smell?
And is he bold enough to take you on?
Do you feel like you belong?

And does he drive you wild?
Or just mildly free?
What about me?

Well you held me like a lover.
Sweaty hands
And my foot in the appropriate place.

And we use cushions to cover
Happy glands
In the mild issue of our disgrace.

Our minds pressed and guarded
While our flesh disregarded
The lack of space for the light-hearted
In the boom that beats our drum.

And I know I make you cry,
And I know sometimes you wanna die,
But do you really feel alive without me?
If so, be free.

If not, leave him for me,
Before one of us has

Accidental babies.

For we are in love"

Damien Rice, Accidental Babies, 9

A lyric girl

And then she realized she was part of literature.

Not the history or its theoretical reminiscences, but an actual living part, like a plot or a theme; a central metaphor, a humming bird. A lyric girl.

She was carrying herself as books had told her. She lived in ink.

She could only interpret relationships following Baudelaire's will. She tried to be mysterious and part of the Generation X. She longed for being a savage detective. She was Illuminations and Figures III. She was sick with the Montano malady.

And she had been told before. You are too analytical, my dear. Too cold, too ungrammatical... to much of a linear love. Generation Y.

You make your own speech and reality, those people don't exist. Stop trying to see through the fog, there is only fog out there. And houses, and cars, and street lights and meaningless sex. An awful amount of reflectance beasts. Your heart pumping gas.

She made boys fall in love with her only to write about it. She was that paperful.

Paperless.

She yearned to read love stories and feel identified, mutter love sentences as a remembered speech. She was that powerful.

And she started reading herself, like a short story. Like a fast food menu. She was the millennium burger, the combo #2.

Powerless.

She was an entry at the yellow pages and a Facebook page. And all the graphic sounds, and all the kings men, couldn't put her back together again.

She fell out of love after a good 150 pages and 2 days.

A

Rampant melody

Bright noises,

Boisterous thoughts,

I scream for you,

In my head. It's all about

Me and this rampant melody.

Symphony of

Sighs, and ifs...

Too many sharp notes,

Jumping from site to site,

Twitching the core,

The main core of this

Rampant melody.

When did you start muttering

Biting songs

Inside my mind? Reading in

Between the

Lines of this autobiography?

But there is no you,

You are my honed me.

It's all about

Me and this rampant melody.

A.

Free rein to curiosity

Curiosity

Tends to enjoy a free rein.

A hand is placed on a

Knee. Slightly warm, slightly

Moist.

Lift it and the rim,

Slightly darker,

Like steam, caresses me.

A word is whispered.

Barely breathing, its humid wave

Crisps me.

Bracing... the back of a neck.

Sweating hot and cold.

Soft and starred: white night.

Sleepless cotton hope.

Your breath, like vapor, bounces of

My fervent skin. Slightly shaking,

The wet stain of a kiss.

A temple, that spot under my chin,

Your words bounce back.

Chest, stomach,

That spot behind my knee,

All crisp.

Brisk.

Curiosity.

Now tends to enjoy a free rein.

A.

Aqua-gym

Ladylike in a recreation pool,

I feel myself trying to do push-ups

And underwater crunches.

The water prunes me and shows

My true age. I'm sixty

And

Twelve years old.

Underwater and moist,

Wet and soft;

Tender, like a new born.

Swimming comes natural

To babies and dogs,

You and I had to be trained,

Taught how not to drown.

And we jump,

Lift our left

Leg up.

Torso tight,

Tight hold.

Tight grasp,

To tight breathe,

Breathing in,

Don't breathe in or

You'll sink.

My every day is like aqua-gym.

A.