Thinking About All The “small” Art That’s Ever Existed. Songs That Were Only Ever Sung In One Village.

how am i meant to show my love when i peel an orange but need a shovel to give you a slice

i have a soft secret wish that conspires against me in the sleepy hours of late afternoon when my big dog sighs into my shoulder and nuzzles under my arm while we both procrastinate his walk a little longer just until we are done being on the couch together, curled up

i need to believe that if he could choose, he would stay looped indelicately, his legs a cascade in the air rolling his back on the only floor i can afford him instead of the romantic impossible wild

there are moments where his ears perk up at a rabbit and he watches their white tail tuck into a bush, like a wink. i don't know what dogs dream about but i hope to god

if he is dreaming about being a wolf he is not disappointed when he wakes up to blunted teeth

There was a young man from Peru

Whose limericks stopped at line two

ive retired this zine from print but you can still look at it here - take care of yourself idiot <3

I make more stuff go look at it.

https://instagram.com/cytoplasm.kd

#1,501

blistered fingertips scratch against constricting linen

i lay in a bed of moss

underneath my grandmothers afghan

and woke surrounded in mold

the clay beneath

tugs, tearing open old gashes

revealing layers of decay

interlocking rigid muscle tissue

every motion scattering spores

i find myself coughing, clenching

crawling through the colonies

for

i am not

your

host

i am only

flesh

and

blood

and yet

that flesh is powdered in mildew

that blood is blooming

i will not yield

i swear

i will taste fresh air

alongside a mushroom omelette

without an inkling of a sour memory

but i fear

i am

rotting

x

{Quotes marguaxpoetry on Instagram / Sarah Kay}

IN 150 CHARACTERS OR LESS - Nikita Gill

#80 I wish poetry came easily. 

Bright words that could naturally sweep through me. 

Like intoxicating and wonder filled seas.

Of lavender, teal and parsnip creme

Trickle from page from pen, from pen to me.

I wish the dam was never closed.

Inspiration endless but an eb and flow,  

Not brilliant wet flashes then dry lonely stones. 

Then the dam’s tight as a dish and I am alone. 

Left to smack at cement and wait in the cold 

For the stones to split apart and invite me to explore the sea. 

But I fumble and stumble, push pen forward on. 

I keep writing haiku, couplet or song,

With remaining words, mediocre and oblong as can be. 

And I feel new stream beds forming beneath me.