white noise.sometimes i turn off the greasy yellow lights and run the water lava hot.the quiet porcelain is an untouched coffinfamiliar as the look in your eyes.i can hear my heart beat in my earsand i stare at the ceiling until it darkens and blurs at the edges.my body is heavy as leadi cannot remember the weight of movement.sometimes the closest i can get is the suicide between each breathand the apology unspoken on the inhale.my skin is a ladder i keep climbing,i can see through the rungs to the fat cells that weigh down my bones.sometimes,my hand becomes his when it creeps uninvited over the landscape of my bodyand across the staircase of my ribs.i can't erase the feeling of his body pressed like a bookover my flower.my head is white noise that bleeds red,but i'm tired of all the blood.tired of all the memories like channelsi keep flicking past.sometimes i wonder if i cut enough slack in my skin, &
summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you? i. summergirl,you are crowthroated and tumblingthrough the aspen grovehair on fire with sunrise, lungsfull of sky.eyelashes like wildflowersand every morning bringsa new spray of frecklesand a sharper curve to your collarbones.the cornfields hold no shadowsfor your lighthouse eyesand there are no endings in thatsurefooted smile. ii. you have grownso fast.autumn finds you with broken anklesleaning on an oak branchand watching the skies.crow to sparrow--you are quiet.summergirl, there is peace in silence,perched treetop,fallen antlers in your hands.you will come to mourn your deer.keep them close. iii. by winter you have paled,and like the streams your eyes have frosted over.you feel the chill--there is no need for sight.summergirl, th
SeashineSacred skinwhere heavens and oceancollide,an imprint on salted lungsan echoof aching, ofa moonlit yearning upon therolling tide.
voice trips across heartbeat,i want to anchor my spine inside your gravity.your smiles have been thinning down to pencil lines. there are no words between them. keep it that way so you can be a charcoal smear around my ribcage, so my body can become gray but still have color in the dead spaces you inhabit. we are both quiet. we sometimes have nothing to say.you cannot practice tragedy, but it came to you in the white noise between our words. we do not know what we want. we are not decisive. we are young and our dreams are too big. we try not to talk about it.you can buy sex if you want it, you can buy stars if your life is dark. you can let your knees hit the dirt but physics will not care and it will hurt more every time. you can let my eyes blink like the letters on your alarm clock at 3 a.m, but the abyss of a dark bedroom will not care if your lips part and you have nothing to say.if we become the horizon, there will always be enough time. it is the only thing i can trust, the only thing i know lasts forev
the speaking of hipshis vertebrae clickwith mine, a slow symphonyand i am alive.
ConnotationsBetween pressed sheetsI am laid out before youwith spine splayedand my soul bared.I ache for your eyes to see my truths,plead for your fingers to explore me;turn me and grasp at my edges, my corners,before folding me down, to mark the placewhere you'll return.--5/8/2012Copyright © 2012 Jen FowlerAll Rights Reserved.
Worn Out Siren TalesI was once the moon-rippled, crystal cleardisturbance at shoreand you found hope, restingon the borders ofsand and wave.When I moved, you breathed,It just isn't worth it,and IwishIhad listened.I was carved on ship hulls for areason,and I was summoned from sleep todrown myself in the clutchesof a sea that disowned mefor one too-and I wrote on woody parchmentsfor more attention thanstory-telling.So when you moved, I stopped,Tell me this is eternal,And Iwish-I reallywishI had not.
ApsaraFind me sunken into thelotus field, bathing skin silvergreen,waist-deep and pinkin sunset, and we will cry:for three-faced elephants,for rain,for the dancers threading gracebetween their fingertips—until I dress in the heaviness,a sarong of heat.
FactHeaven knows, but it won't tell.
I hope you are reading thisthe person I love loves music much too muchand the person I love loves that I love the quiet and easy days loves that I like to stay up late (or early) till the birds sing of morning andthe person I love loves that I love to hold hands and hold a body but only when I know them fullyand the person I love loves listening to my songs and listening to my voice and to my poetry and storiesthe person I love has songs to share too and a voice that melts my heart and words that mold it back into something nostalgia old and inspired newand the person I love loves to look around and take it in once in a while and wonders why we can’t just run away to a secluded place in the forest with a cabin that harbors all of our needs, keeps you and me in a space apart where it rains when we’re sad because we would always be sad together and where the sun is warm on our skin when we are smiling together and laughing together because I made a spectacular pun out of seemingly nothing sp
Satelliteit seems you wander aimlessly—like the white blinking lightbetween the branches of that dark treei see when i open the backdoor to smokeanother desperate cigarette—orbiting so far in the distance thati cannot fathom your purpose,though you must serve one in the livesof many.
072i ached enough that dayto salt the atlantic oceanthree time over
astronomer's insomniapour in milky waystir until planets dissolveturn, avoid the sun
The Poetical Condition1.30.13When I was eight,I was absolutely in love.The brown eyed boyhad stolen my heartand slid it into his pocket,and I thought his lovewas in the rose he gave methat Sunday morning,so I wrote him a love letterthat I thought was as goodas poetry, I penned out,"I like you. Do you like me?Yes or no."When I was eleven,I gazed at the skyromantically and counteda new star with each step.I thought, "Even the moonwants to fall in love tonight."The boy I admired thoughtI was silly and waited forme to trip on a rock.That night, I learnedI had a condition thatno one else understood.When I was fifteen,I loved someone who barelysaw me, and I cared for himin silence, as the unseen do.The first night I recited my poetry,he hugged me and told meI smelled nice and I thought thatwas a poem in itself.I wrote him sonnets anddreamed that he loved me untilhe graduated later that year.When I was eighteen,I was all lips, fireflies,and heart beating irregularly,an
novemberthe sun is a dim pearlbeneath a blanket of grayhung low from the heavens;i'm your yellow tremorpaled by the cold, achingfor a proper sunrise.
Mid-month momentsthings i have done today: crawled out of bed, hands& knees scuffing carpet, collectingdust encrusted memories inhalf-healed grazes. lost myself in theshower, soul wandered offup the exhaust chute& left me staring atwhale-bone tile. broke my dam over lamb& chips, salt on salt until my lipspuckered under the assault andyour name came tumblingout, acrobatic.
.a lover leaving hishome for another, a sparkthat becomes a flame
. becoming a mermaidthe thing about mermaids, i must explain, is that they are not always born in the sea.i.nothing.it was nothing, she reminds herself, leaning precariously over the prim white balcony. the breathing ocean moans and sighs, sighs and moans against the fragile coastline.all of this is nothing and it is everything.she takes one, two, three bitter sips with a wince and leaves the salt air to find her sterile, cold bedroom. the new year is cursed, she decides as she falls limp and helpless into the wild mess of sheets that swallow her small body whole.(she closes her eyes and imagines the pale blankets to be rugged waves, breathing and gasping, gasping and breathing across, around, inside of her bones. they pull her deeper, deeper, deeper, like the myths of once-mermaids dissolving into sea-foam. she can almost feel herself become the ocean, when…)ii.real or illusion; was it a memory, a dream, a hallucination?"why?" he had asked her."everyone deserves to know if they are loved," s
Take me homeyou live in me,cancerous white noise,high tide of danger.you consume me,oceanic burial ground,reddened memories,love-making stranger.