what they said?
Or is it just
what you heard?
Brown EyesI love your eyes.
I could write songs and rhyming poems,
and whole books or theses
on your eyes
and the beauty or depths
There are many shades of
from dirt to chocolate,
dog shit to coffee,
carob to bourbon,
but none of these
come anywhere close to describing
the shade of your stupid eyes,
in their beauty (or ugliness).
The way they enrapture me
and distract me from my work
or pull my attention away from
my television shows
has always been loathsome and annoying,
but your eyes are still
my favourite shade of brown
for all the depths they contain
that I wish to traverse,
and to understand.
I don't know what it is,
when you are so dumb sometimes,
when your eyes glitter with
that makes me love them
so goddamn much.
Although, I can guess.
It might be the beauty,
or the humour,
But I think it's the way
get away from so many cliches
and simply add to your complexity,
Ashes"You always smile like you're about to cry."
I remember when you told me that.
We were lying together, and it was nearly dark,
and I could see the smoke
curling up away from your face,
which was lit by a cigarette.
I suppose after you left, I needed to get rid of
traces that reminded me of you.
The scent of your perfume was easy,
as simple as doing the laundry.
But your cigarettes lingered
so now I burn incense
day in and day out while I write,
and smoke my cigarettes,
and drink more coffee than I should.
And I can't help but think
that ashes are all that is ever left of my relationships.
Scattered ThoughtsMy thoughts have always been scattered
like ash in the warm summer breeze
that one morning after.
The magic of that night;
cannot find words to contain it -
could never find the melodies played -
could never reclaim that feeling.
For only sixteen,
we surely captured something fantastic;
Even today I think back to her -
her skin warm against mine in the cold evening
while huddling next to a bonfire
and eating ice cream...
I think of everything from that night
over and again
and never come any closer to solving the enigma of it.
She was like a cigarette,
addictive and dangerous
and I never quite managed another fix.
Chapter 13: Early Sunsets Over MonroevilleGerard was finally in the car, along with Mikey and Ray, when Frank appeared. Gee groaned as soon as he saw the look on Frank’s face. Frank got to the window of the car, and sighed. “Let me guess. The car doesn’t work?” Gee said.
“Uh, yeah. Sorry, guys. But the good news is, the VW right over there works, and I have the keys.”
“Whose Karmann is that?” Ray asked, looking at the dark, mottled purple car with desert dust caked onto it, inches thick.
“Long story,” Frank said. “And I have a couple of things to do inside. I’m gonna get some food and shit for us. Here,” he handed Gerard the keys. “Go get into the car, preferably the back seat. I’ll be back in a few minutes, hopefully before Dracs get here.”
He jogged back inside. Gerard groaned, before he opened the car door and got up. He dragged himself over to the Karmann, as Ray and Mikey helped each other over to the car. Gee unlocked it and g
Roses and the Boys that Bring Themi.
You always brought me roses
as if that made things better.
Their petals bruised as easily as my skin,
and you noticed their bruising more.
I told you, once, the reason why
I love roses too much.
You smiled and kissed my hand
and, still smiling, said
"That's so sweet, love."
My dad cultivated roses when I was a child
and when my brother bought the house,
the roses stayed,
all but one bush. Which
to be the bush that produced my favorite roses.
You cut me roses fresh from that park,
and I remember smiling,
and kissing you.
I didn't realize you took this as an invitation,
nor did I realize
some people see sex as a bargain.
The commonality of roses
when I was a kid
made many people laugh when I told them
roses are my favorite.
And many told me it was a cliche.
You brought me a single rose,
but never gave me your name.
Even though I already knew anyway,
I kind of wish you'd told me
so I could've kissed you.
You told me I was
SadnessMy sadness is so crippling
I just want to get rid of it.
I think of what it would be like,
to be the me I am now,
without the sadness to have guided my way
and the anxiety to steer my course.
But then comes the thought
that keeps me awake at night.
That my sadness, this curse,
while not pleasant,
is what makes me interesting.
And suddenly I don't want to get rid of it.
without my sadness,
I'd just be so boring...
and we found...we love like we sin, terrified and breathless.
we are tea-at-midnight girls, naming constellations
that don't exist after lost tourists we meet on the
street, reminding our freckle covered shoulders
that even beautiful things can be made ordinary.
we are broken fingers and half-closed eyelids and a
penchant for mischief. we are ribbon skin and frantic
desires and incandescent hope. we are a voice spilling
secrets to falling leaves diving after their arachnid brothers,
mimicking the millions before us who were
judged unfairly, unjustly but all too correctly.
we whisper promises to dandelions because they do not
know how to hold grudges and we refuse to die because
the world can not stand the sight of our scars and
cloud-colored eyes filled with a malady called freedom.
we are believers and dreamers and scared to death but we
are not done yet. we are dusty library windows and thunder
raking through bones and leaving eyes glowing, skin shaking,
burning whispers of 'I'm sorry, but this is
moonshines in georgiaman on the moon:
giddy with lumps of north georgia seas
greased on the crease of my lips
gravity drips from crescent couch-cavities
when tides belch from below --
burst on the water's edge,
earth's bourbon sailors retch in moonshined ripples
trickled blue murder on their crinkled crimes;
raking water wrinkles like a wayward drunk
stuck on sunken bootleggin' dreams.
it's been a long, long time
since I've drowned your hemisphere
for fishing like a moon-raker,
swishing my bait-lines with tobacco
squished in your shallow gums
as you dare to down my air
breathing in this sincere georgia night.
the world is brighter where
dregs of strangers' revels remain --
i keep this half-light for my own.
i'll stay until the wind sighs a scotch-and-smoke
cliché, til the Muscadet's slipped from the lip
of my wayward
hello.(i know you're there before you do.)
your night is told in
patchouli-pulse wanders; mine,
in whorls of liqueur-breath. come
close and i'll find the warp
through the weft, the trails telling tales
in synaesthesia --
Platinum Blonde's been 'round and gone.
(-- closer, find syllables strewn
in an exhale's wake; stolen from my throat-
ful of careless farewells, spin and sway
and beg you stay.)
time enough for a kiss-
and-never-tell, for a stumbling waltz
to the dissonance of crystal-shatter odes
to the summerlong i knew you --
we were(n't) meant for more than this.
morning goes right through you,
and breathes a thousand fortunes in-
to shards of (our) stranger starfall.
hushi'm done wishing
on shooting stars, and
i want to be done with you:
i'll let dust settle
on my telescope,
let dust settle in
my throat, my lungs.
twist your fingers through
my vocal cords,
press your palm to
my lips and tell me, hush
don't wish on things
falling too fast
to hear you
maybe i'll wish
they are quiet houses
for muted ghosts, though
more alive than you
have ever been.
i'll let you
pull me under,
paint my eyes
with salt, blind me
so you can murmur, shh
even dead things
can be beautiful
Sea-Salt Ice Cream Recipe
Sea-Salt Ice Cream
Wire whisk or fork
Medium sized saucepan
Medium sized bowl
1 cup measure
1 teaspoon measure
Ice-cream maker or ice-pop molds or a cooler of liquid nitrogen (optional)
1 heart (optional get it)
1 cup milk
1 cup sugar
1 cup heavy cream
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
blue and green food coloring (optional)
1. Re-arrange the letters of your name and add an X somewhere.
2. Crack 2 eggs into the bowl and whisk well for a few minutes. A wire whisk works best but a fork can do in a pinch.
3. Add the cup of sugar into the eggs and continue to whisk well until creamy.
4. Heat the milk in the saucepan over medium heat until warmish hot while constantly stirring with the wooden spoon (do not use a metal spoon it will scratch your pot and make the milk burn easier). The milk should be right before boiling, but do not
Six Words for a SlumpSix Words For A Slump:
You're tired, unable to create anything.
You feel angry; the anatomy's wrong!
Why won't these words come together?
"Nothing's right anymore, my hands tremble..."
Yet the solution is fairly simple...
I'm showing it to you now;
Break up your ideas, smaller sized.
They come together, like in Tetris.
Rotate the blocks; shape your art.
Draw chibis and stick figures too.
Instead of epics, try a haiku.
How about a six word story?
If your mind is blocked, overheated.
Let it cool; take it slow.
By attempting all the smaller things,
Your art is sure to grow.
-Chen Yuan Wen, 5th January 2013
Slutit implodes on the walls of your skull
and slides, sickly
off your tongue
like the body of a slug.
when it hits the floor
it is not quiet,
but sharp as a slap
and totters out of
they are disgusting
and you are ill.
there is no more room
washed away by the slime
coming out of your pores.
the fault is yours
An artist (revised)
Staring blankly at a white sheet of paper
Can truly be an artist’s worst nightmare
An artist’s duty as its shaper
Their thoughts up in the clouds somewhere
Looking for bits of inspiration
Their eyes searching the skies
Nothing can break their concentration
Nothing can blow out the passion in their eyes
Being an artist does not always mean you are skilled
You do not need to be Picasso or Bach
It means you want to see your dream fulfilled
And that you will never give in to an art block