Friday, October 28, 2011
The summer clothes are stuffed in a dark corner of the closet and Lady Gravity pulls everything down once November starts. Degrees are swept below the porch with the leaves of frightened trees. Layers are added to the staircases, the shrubs, the bed and our little brittle heads. We rub our hands together to produce some kind of magic, if not at the bus stop, under hot water or in the stench of the sleepy heating devices.
Pedals are slowly left to settle with cobwebs and dust as we reach for our monthly passes. Squeezed into the middle of the crowded bus, we attempt to grab a secure fixture, pushing our arm through puffy coats and yards of scarves. We sweat in silence. Despite the biting cold we’ve just escaped, we feel sleepy.
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Pedals are slowly left to settle with cobwebs and dust as we reach for our monthly passes. Squeezed into the middle of the crowded bus, we attempt to grab a secure fixture, pushing our arm through puffy coats and yards of scarves. We sweat in silence. Despite the biting cold we’ve just escaped, we feel sleepy.
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Labels: beard, graphic journal, mood
posted by Primessa Espiritu
October 28, 2011
0 comments
Hang in there, moon
Friday, September 03, 2010
posted by Primessa Espiritu
September 03, 2010
0 comments
French Weekend
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
it was a new city
i wore new jeans
gathered feathers
put them to the test
negate the chance
of it being true
i made a plan
to talk to you
a flying elephant
i saw the show
i waited for the trick
what a plague
it drew
strings were set
you dropped a card
i followed through
the circus was subtle
the vegetation thick
it covered your wounds
it made me sink
homesick
but not for long
a swing a crash
a deluxe
cardboard box
all in place
to talk to you
slither above
shut your door
but not for long
silence crept
pulled you down
in front of the room
not left nor right
you held your bottle
like a light
it could have been
a message on a beach
a french weekend
what could it be
the perfume i wore
the house you built
the roof you shook
the ghost i used
the pillow you choked
the seat i took
the song you played
but not for real
to set the record straight
it was just a ruse
to talk to you
you were so grade A
you were so close
you were blinding
did i shiver
did i blink
i ran away
with the taxi driver
i got crushed
by a flying elephant
before i could return
to tell you about the spark
you left in my room
how the iron fell
on my toes
of a whisper barely broken
upon your heart and sleeve
about the gift and greed
of that afternoon
this is not a poem
this is not a secret
it is just my way
of saying...
i wore new jeans
gathered feathers
put them to the test
negate the chance
of it being true
i made a plan
to talk to you
a flying elephant
i saw the show
i waited for the trick
what a plague
it drew
strings were set
you dropped a card
i followed through
the circus was subtle
the vegetation thick
it covered your wounds
it made me sink
homesick
but not for long
a swing a crash
a deluxe
cardboard box
all in place
to talk to you
slither above
shut your door
but not for long
silence crept
pulled you down
in front of the room
not left nor right
you held your bottle
like a light
it could have been
a message on a beach
a french weekend
what could it be
the perfume i wore
the house you built
the roof you shook
the ghost i used
the pillow you choked
the seat i took
the song you played
but not for real
to set the record straight
it was just a ruse
to talk to you
you were so grade A
you were so close
you were blinding
did i shiver
did i blink
i ran away
with the taxi driver
i got crushed
by a flying elephant
before i could return
to tell you about the spark
you left in my room
how the iron fell
on my toes
of a whisper barely broken
upon your heart and sleeve
about the gift and greed
of that afternoon
this is not a poem
this is not a secret
it is just my way
of saying...
Labels: artform, mood, notes, To a person who never returned to the world
posted by Primessa Espiritu
July 15, 2009
0 comments
